


Wounds

by GravityPinefalls



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gun Violence, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10665471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityPinefalls/pseuds/GravityPinefalls
Summary: Bang bang, I shot you down.  Bang bang, you hit the ground.  Bang bang, that awful sound.  Dipper/Mabel angst and hurt and healing and comfort.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough_   
_And things go wrong no matter what I do._   
_Now and then it seems that life is just too much_   
_But you've got the love I need to see me through._   
_-Florence + The Machine_

“Kevin?”

Dipper followed the line of Mabel’s vision, seeing Mabel’s ex-boyfriend approaching them.   _Recent_ ex-boyfriend.  He sighed.  This was … what, probably the third or fourth time they’ve gone through this?  He really didn’t care for Mabel’s dating practices, and was rather tired of learning the names of the revolving door of boys she kept introducing him to, only to break up within a month.  But he was particularly tired of how _bad_ she was at breaking up.  She’d break up with a guy at the _start_ of a date.  She’d break up with a guy by saying they should “take a break” and lead the poor sap into increasingly over-the-top romantic gestures to get her back.  And sometimes - although Dipper really put his foot down on this, and Mabel promised to stop - she’d just tell them her family disapproved of the relationship, which more often than not resulted in Dipper being blindsided by some kid he barely knew, ranting at him for interfering in Mabel’s relationship, and demanding answers.

“Christ, Mabel,” Dipper said.  “What did you do to _this_ one?”

The color drained from her face.

“I’m sorry, I - he was getting kinda scary when I broke up with him … so I kinda said … I said it was your idea …”

_Well, shit._

He could see it in Kevin’s eyes.  This one was different.  This was going to be an actual fistfight, unless he managed to talk the guy out of it.  Which, of course, was very difficult, when Dipper had barely spoken five words to him before, and had no earthly idea exactly what Mabel had said to get him so angry.

He took Mabel by the elbow and they stood up together. It was their free period - as high school seniors, they were allowed to register for study periods instead of actual classes - and the library wasn’t particularly full, but full enough that a fight would get the attentions of teachers and administrators very quickly.  He’d like to avoid that, though - the school’s “zero tolerance” policies are such that being punched carries just as much punishment as punching someone.  At least Kevin was a scrawny-looking kid, not likely to do a lot of damage.  Thank God Mabel didn’t try this with the captain of the football team - that guy could take Dipper’s head off.

Something about Kevin’s expression caught his attention.  He was mad, of course.  But also … scared?  As if he was afraid about what was going to happen.  Which made no sense.  I mean, yeah, a fistfight in the library would get both of them suspended for a week, but what little he knew about Kevin was that the guy skips class pretty often anyway.  There’s really nothing he could do here that would completely screw up his life …

_Oh god._

He convinces himself he’s paranoid, he’s reading way too much into this, it’s not what he thinks it is.  But he looks to left and right and realizes they are in a corner of the library, stacks to their left and right, Kevin approaching, the table between them, Dipper’s AP Calculus and Mabel’s AP History assignments scattered across it.  And Dipper wants to run.  He needs to run.  And if Mabel was not there, he would.  But she _is_ there.  So he stays.  He stays because it’s 60 degrees outside and Kevin is wearing a heavy coat and he’s unzipping the coat and his hand is reaching into the coat.  And it might just be Kevin really likes the coat, and it might be he’s just going to give Mabel a mix tape that tells her how he feels.

But Dipper grabs Mabel, pushes her against the wall of books, and presses his back to her.  

_God, this is going to look stupid if he’s not really ..._

“Pines!” Kevin shouts - wails, really, tears streaming down his cheek.  “I figured it out, Pines.  What Mabel was telling me.  What she was telling me all along.”

“Kevin?”

He approaches them, standing on the other side of the table.

“It’s _you_ , Dipper.  It’s _always_ been you.  You’re the reason Mabel can’t be happy.  And when she told me she couldn’t be with me, and it was because you just _decided_ that, all on your _own_ … I understood.  I _finally_ understood what Mabel was telling me.  She wants to be free, Pines.  And she’ll be with me if I free her.”

People were reacting; he noticed students pulling out phones, dialing frantically, others fast-walking out of the library, many of them not bothering to pick up their things.

“Kevin, come on man, you don’t need to do this.”

The world faded away for a moment; he could see nothing but the black pistol Kevin withdrew from his coat.  He could see every little detail, the plastic ridges of the grip, the black steel, and the front - there was a little hole in the front ( _are bullets really that small?_ ) and it was pointed at him ( _if I tense the muscles in my chest can that help make sure it doesn’t go through me and hit Mabel?_ ) and hopefully this was still a prank, it’s a BB gun.

“I love you, Mabel,” Kevin said, and there was a loud sound, not a gunshot, but an ear-piercing crack, and a reverberation like thunder in the room.  And obviously it was a fake gun, he was shooting rubber bullets or something, because something punched him in the chest, knocked the wind out of him, but it didn’t really hurt that bad, just a weird burning sensation, probably going to bruise really bad, and he looked down to see the red paint marker on his shirt, maybe 6 inches beneath his left nipple, ugh, super gross, and it was red and oozing and the hole was way too small to be a bullet and come on Kevin this prank is really going too far now.

“I love you _so much_ ,” added Kevin, and he shot Dipper again, this time in the upper right chest, near his shoulder.

The gunshot was so loud - he was beginning to realize that was the sound he was hearing, and he was beginning to feel pain, burning and stabbing on both sides of his chest, and something warm and wet was starting to tickle his throat and make him want to cough.  Louder still was the sound behind him, this ungodly scream, right in his goddamn ear, and that sound was what did him in, sapped the strength from his legs.  He nearly fell forward before Mabel’s hands caught him, gripping his chest under his arms, smearing the blood all over, the force of her contact on his wounds making him hack up something red and metallic-tasting.

“It’s all right, Mabel,” said Kevin.  “It’s almost done.  Just step away and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”

Dipper was floating, arms and legs noodly and indistinct, but he was sitting on the floor with his back against something warm and soft and breathing heavily, and warm and sticky hands were holding his head from flopping this way and that, and cool metal brushed against his temple.

“Stop!” Mabel cried.  “Oh, god, please stop!”

“Mabel, I know, it’s difficult,” said Kevin.  “It’ll be fine, I promise.”

The library was so empty now.  He could barely hear anything.  And then …

“Kevin … you did so good, Kevin,” said Mabel.  “Just listen to me, though.”

The metal pressing against his head drew away.

“I mean … j-just … look at h-h-him,” Mabel sobbed.  “No … no way he’ll ever tell me who to date after this, r-right…”

“Right,” said Kevin.  “Yeah, babe, you’re right.”

“But if you k-k-”  she sucked in a breath.  “If you do that … you’ll be in jail so long, we’ll never get to see each other.”

Kevin nodded.

“Wow, yeah, good point.”

“So you s-should probably get outta here,” Mabel said.  “Before the … p-olice … and we … we’ll get together af … fter.”

He smiled, sticking the gun back into his coat.

“Awesome, Mabel.  You really _did_ think this through, didn’t you?  Sorry about all this.  Probably would’ve been better off to do this when you two weren’t together but …”  

He made a vague wave in the air, a _you know how it is_ sort of gesture.

“Well, you guys never are, are you?” he laughed.

Mabel gave a fair impression of a laugh.

“All right, babe.  I’m outie.  See you soon, OK?”

“Y-you bet,” she said.

“And hey, no hard feelings, Dipper.  You know I’d do anything for this girl.”

Dipper’s right noodle-arm made a slight wave that might be interpreted as “no big deal.”

His breaths were getting shorter, more pained, more gurgly, the ache in his chest like something important burst in there, and when the double-doors of the library clattered open and then slammed shut, Mabel scooted out from between him and the bookshelves, leaned him against the books, and swept her cellphone off the table.

“My brother,” she sobbed into the phone.  “He’s been shot.  Eggbert High School.  Library.  H-hurry, he’s having trouble breathing.  Oh god.  Oh god please…”

God, she was a mess.  Hair all frazzled, raccoon-eyes from crying, blush-less trails down her cheeks.  Augh, and she just bought herself that shirt recently, and it’s got red streaks all over it now.  Man, he really screwed this one up.

“Dipper,” she said.  “Oh god, Dipper, I’m so sorry.  I’m so fucking sorry I can’t even … please, oh god, please stay with me.  The ambulance is coming.  Just hang on.”

“S-shirt,” he spat, pointing at the red lines.  He wasn’t sure how much longer he had, and he really needed to apologize for staining it.

She looked down, realizing what he was saying.  Kind of.

“The blood?  It’s not mine,” she said.  “I didn’t get hit at all, see?”  She patted her chest with her hand - placing several bloody handprints on the shirt - and seemed to realize this did not satisfy him.  

“Look,” she said, pulling her shirt up to her shoulders, showing the delicate skin of her stomach and chest, flashing a blue-green bra that he noted looked rather cute.  “Not a mark on me.”  She pulled her shirt back down, cradled his head.  “You saved my life, all right?  And I know it hurts a lot but I really really really need you to not d-die …”

She pressed her forehead to his, and he could actually feel the tears on his face … well, probably snot as well … and he moved a hand to her shoulder to rub her back, but he couldn’t feel her back, and then he realized he never actually moved a hand to her shoulder and just thought he did and I’m so tired can’t really move kinda hard to see and hear too but hey sense of smell is still running strong still got that going for me Mabel smells so nice like peaches and vanilla and maybe it’s her lotion and shampoo or maybe that’s what Mabel smells like when you’re dying that’s the smell of her spirit because she’s really just a bowl of peaches I kinda always knew she was really just a bowl of peaches that can take human form sometimes and I kinda wanna taste her that’s not weird right just a taste just a lick of her cheek but the words aren’t coming out right and I’m tired and I wonder what -

 

* * *

 

“Seventeen-year-old male, two gee-es-dubs, upper right and mid left thorax, no exit wound.  I’ve got bilateral chest sounds.  Looks like he worked up a nice pneumo for us, so let’s patch that right here.”

“You want the kit?”

“Nah, not yet.  Pulse ox still looks good.  Put a mask on him for now; we’ll intubate in the bus if we need to.”

“Gotcha.  All right, ready for the board?”

“Just a sec … yeah, all right.  Let’s roll him.”

Mabel stared, glassy eyed, as the paramedics worked over him.  Two police officers had kicked aside the library tables and chairs to make room, scattering their school assignments all over the floor, and those same officers were standing nearby, hands on their gun-belts.  The library was swarmed with police, the sounds of their chirping radios echoing off the shelves, and if they weren’t making noise she would never have noticed them, because she could not look away from her brother.  Kevin had apparently gotten off campus right before the first police cars arrived.

She watched the paramedics cut off Dipper’s shirt and pants, watched the blood ooze from the two holes in his chest, watch him stare lifelessly at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, watched them put some sort of temporary bandages over his wounds, watched them place a collar around his neck, an oxygen mask over his face, and slide him onto a heavy board and strap him in.  

The sight of them placing him on the gurney shocked her into speech.

“I’m going,” she said.  “I’m going with you.”

“I’m so sorry hun,” said one paramedic.  “We can only let family members ride the ambulance.  You’ll see him at the hospital, okay?”

“They’re siblings,” said a voice behind her.  Mrs. Maloney, the assistant librarian.  She’d been standing behind Mabel for a while now, rubbing her shoulders, gently encouraging her to go into her office so she wouldn’t have to see all this, and knowing full well Mabel would never agree to such a thing.  Mabel forgot she was even there.

“She’s his twin sister,” Mrs. Maloney added.

The paramedics glanced at each other, their polite but detached expressions darkening just a bit.

“Oh, Jesus,” said one.

The other quickly recovered.

“Oh, why didn’t you say so, honey?  What’s your name?”

“M-mabel,” she whispered.

“All right, Mabel, try to keep up, because we’re gonna push this gurney pretty fast.  We’ll need you to help us out on the way to the hospital, okay?”

She nodded, turned to Mrs. Maloney.

“Our parents…” she said.  It had been … five minutes?  Ten?  She hadn’t called her parents yet.  They’d want to know.  She dropped her cellphone after the 911 call.  She should find it...

“I’ll call them myself,” said Mrs. Maloney.  “You’ve got enough to worry about.  Just go.”

Mabel was fast-walking behind the gurney, and two more police officers ran alongside, escorting them to the parking lot, and standing by as they got into the ambulance.

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Maloney picked up one of the turned-over chairs and sat down.  Her hands were shaking.  

“You all right, Ma’am?” said one of the officers.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” she said.  “Ah, Merciful God, why does this have to happen?”

“I’m asking myself the same thing” said the officer.  “I mean, Jesus Christ, I have a daughter not much younger than her.”

“Did you find Kevin yet?”

“The shooter?  No, not yet.  We’ve got people at his house and his license plates are in the system.  He’s not going to get far.”

“What if he - if he tries again … oh god, you have to protect those kids …”

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “We’re not as dumb as we look.  The ambulance has a police escort, and they’ll have officers round-the-clock at the hospital.”

She sighed.

“God.  I have to call their parents.  What the hell do I even say to them?”

“There’s procedures for that,” said the officer.  “My sergeant is in the office right now, with the principal.  They’ll make the call, and tell them what hospital to go to.  Right now … it might do them more good for you to hold off on that phone call.  Let them deal with this one bit at a time.”

She nodded, patted her pockets in a gesture the cop immediately recognized.

“Fuck,” she said.

“Smoke free campus?” said the officer.

“Yeah, well, it’s a high school.”

The officer pulled a pack out of his pocket and handed it to her.

“You know it’s illegal to smoke in here,” she said, pulling out a cigarette.

“Nope,” he said.  “I don’t.”

She placed it in her mouth, lit it, exhaled numbing smoke, and when she was ready, made her way to her office.  Dammit, she quit six months ago; she’d have to start all over again.  Her cellphone was already buzzing.  Twenty-two missed calls.  She picked up the one ringing in before it became number twenty-three.

“Mom?  Yeah, it’s me.  It’s okay.  Breathe, mom.  It’s fine.  It’s all over.  I’m not hurt.”

She broke down as she thought about how many families would be receiving the exact same phone call today, and the one family that would not.

 

* * *

 

She thought it would be louder in the ambulance, what with the sirens blaring.  Maybe her hearing was all screwed up.  Guns are so loud; she had no idea how loud they are.  One paramedic was driving, the other doing all sorts of weird things to Dipper’s body ( _not his body a body is a dead person this is just Dipper it’s Dipper and he’s alive and he’s going to be fine_ ) and occasionally speaking some gibberish on the radio.

“Didja hear me, honey?”

She turned her head, to the paramedic sitting to her right.

“I said he’s doing really good,” said the paramedic.  “Heck, he’s doing so good, I’ve got nothing to do until we get to the hospital.  You wanna switch seats and talk to him a little?”

She nodded, squirming through the tight confines of the ambulance, sitting at the head of the gurney.  His eyes were closed, which she found much more preferable, if he was going to be unconscious anyway.  Eyes closed and unconscious means sleeping, not dead.  The collar around his neck pressed hard on his chin, and made him face straight up, head tilted back, so that his bangs fell away and uncovered his birthmark.  Ah, he’d hate that.  She stroked his hair, rearranging his bangs over his forehead.

_I got you, bro._

God, he was so pale.  So fragile.  She almost lost him … she _still_ might lose him … without ever telling him … because he knew, surely … I mean, _she’d_ know, if she was in his place … because it’s not something you say to your sibling … because of course it doesn’t need to be said … it’s so _obvious_ , in every word between them, every little interaction, every moment.

“Dipper,” she whispered.

She pressed her forehead to his.

“I love you,” she said.  “We say that to each other so rarely, almost always half-joking, because we’re not big on all that schmoopy brother-sister stuff.  And like, it’s totes weird to tell your best friend you love them, am I right?  I mean, that’s just not how we are.  We’ve got each others’ back.  We’ll move heaven and earth for each other.  And that should be enough.  But … but today it’s not enough.  So … I’ll say it, and I’ll mean it, and I’ll say it over and over again.  I love you.  I love you.   _I love you_.”  Her voice cracked, tears streaming.  “I love you so fucking much.  So you have to … you have to wake up, and make fun of me for saying something so embarrassing.  I mean … if you really let me say that … and just leave me hanging … you’re … you’re like the worst jerk ever ...”

She shook, and the paramedic wrapped an arm around her, and didn’t let go until they arrived at the hospital.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

She was separated from him in the emergency ward, as Dipper was immediately brought in for surgery.  She was escorted to a small trauma room ( _haha, ‘trauma room,’ because I’m fucking traumatized, perfect name, gotta tell Dipper that one, el oh els_ ) and sat in a chair in the corner.  More cops, all over the place.  Conversations between them seemed to suggest Kevin was still not found.  One of them asked her what Kevin was wearing when he left.  She couldn’t remember.  They didn’t ask about what happened, which she thought was odd.  Maybe they’d do that later.

_That’s good though.  Because if Dipper doesn’t make it, I can just ask all these cops to go away.  And I’ll wait for Kevin.  And I’ll get him to kill me.  And then I won’t have to be alone._

She was vaguely aware her thoughts were becoming strange.  Her parents were coming soon, though.  That might help.

She pressed the heel of her palms to her eyes.  Yeah, they’d probably interview her, as she was a witness to a crime.  A murder, maybe.

**_NO._ **

An attempted murder, maybe.  Yeah, that’s what this was.  Okay, so let’s … what happened?

Well, Kevin was a capital-C creep, she found out within a week of going out with him.  Talking about marriage and babies on their second date.  Super possessive, kind of dismissive whenever they disagreed about … _anything_ , really.  So when she broke up with him … she … kinda _didn’t_.  Like, he didn’t believe her.  And he got angry.  Not like violently angry; she would’ve told Dipper and her parents if he thought he was gunning for ( _oh god_ ) revenge.  Just like … a cool sort of angry, weirdly calm.  And she hated it when people got angry during breakups, so of course she said -

_Oh god oh fuck oh no_

_Of course_ she said _Dipper_ thought Kevin wasn’t good for her.  And Kevin suddenly wasn’t angry anymore.  He actually smiled.  Understood her.  Because of course her brother would look out for her.

_He understood Dipper was in the way.  That I’d be with Kevin if not for him._

_No no no no no._

Oh god, Dipper.  He’d asked her, _begged_ her, to stop putting him in the middle of these things.  That he was sick of having to negotiate his way through her breakups.  Sick of people calling him the bad guy ( _Dipper’s not a bad guy he’s the best guy he’s the best person in the entire world oh my god why doesn’t everyone know that_ ) and giving him a reputation for being a creepy possessive brother ( _he’s not creepy I’m creepy I’m the one who did this I made this happen_ ).  

Dipper would’ve known.  Dipper would’ve seen that calm-before-the-storm in Kevin and told her exactly what was coming.  Dipper knew, as soon as Kevin came into the library.  He’s so awkward around people, a total drag at parties sometimes, but Dipper knows danger when he sees it, and _he saw it_ , and he got between her and Kevin, put his body between them, which makes no sense, the only reason he’d do that is if he knew Kevin was going to do something crazy, knew Kevin was going to point a gun and shoot.  And knowing that, Dipper made himself a human shield for her, literally took a bullet ( _bullets, he shot him twice two shots in the chest bang bang my baby shot me down_ ) as if her life was worth sacrificing his own for ( _but it’s not you know that Dipper you’re the smart one you’re the one who’s gonna be a super-scientist like Grunkle Ford I’m just gonna knit sweaters and collect cats the rest of my life you know ‘ol Kitty Knitty Mabel that’s what they’ll call me then that’s my crazy cat lady name yep yep_ ).

But that’s not _exactly_ what happened.  Because Kevin wasn’t there to kill _her_ .  He was there to kill _Dipper_ .  Because she _told_ him to.

_God no please no don’t take him I promise to be good oh god he’s mine you can’t have him._

Shaking, bone-jarring sobs.

 _Mabel, you stupid, stupid ass.  Where did you think this was going to go?  Breaking up with boys and blaming Dipper, making him deal with the fall-out.  I mean, you have a_ reputation _for this.  It was going to come back on him somehow.  Nothing_ this _bad - there’s no way I could have predicted someone would take it this far - but what the hell do you think happens when there’s a critical mass of boys in our school who think Dipper is the crazy possessive brother constantly breaking me up with people?_

She tugged at her shirt.  The blood was already dried and flaking off.  Her hands were stained with it.  Dipper blood.  There’s so much of it.  How much does he have left?

“Hey!” she shouted.  “Hey, I wanna donate!  I wanna donate blood!”

A nurse passed the cop next to the door and poked her head in.

“It’s all right honey, he’ll be OK.”

“But just in case … I mean, you never know…”

“It’s all right, honey.  The doctor already topped him up.”  She saw this was not at all satisfactory to Mabel.  “Tell you what, I’ll get someone in here to do a blood test, and see if you’re compatible to donate for him.  So if we need any we’ll know who to stick.”

Mabel nodded, and heard snippets of a conversation just outside.

“Pines,” said a voice, much like Dipper’s but deeper.  “Mabel and Dipper Pines.  We’re their parents.  Here, here’s our drivers’ licenses.  The cops said you needed to see them.”

“Of course, yes.  We’re on lockdown right now, Mr. Pines.  Half the police force is here to keep your kids safe.  Dipper’s in surgery right now but your daughter is right here.”

The curtain slid aside, and Mabel saw something she’d never seen before.  Never thought she’d see.  Her father, the textbook definition of “put together,” breaking right before her.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said.  “Oh, my sweet baby.”

He scooped her in his arms, squeezing her tight.  His aftershave was Old Spice.  

“I’m sorry,” Mabel said.  “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

She didn’t think he heard her, but released his grip a little, letting her feet slide to the floor, so she could actually stand as her mother embraced the two of them from behind.

“It’s all right,” Mom said.  “We’ll get through this.”

“Mom, it’s all my fault.  All of this is my fault.”

“Mabel, no,” she said.  “No it isn’t.  None of this is your fault.”

She shook her head in refusal.

Mrs. Pines sighed.  Stepped back, regarded her daughter.

“Oh,” she said.  “Oh lord, you’re all …”

So much Dipper blood.  Her hands red, trails of dried blood all the way to her elbows.  Streaked back and forth over her shirt.  Droplets on her skirt.  Clumped in her hair.  She was _wearing him_.  

“Do …”  Her mother licked her lips in apprehension.  “Do you want to clean up a little, honey?  So you’ll look nice when Dipper gets out of surgery?”

She shook her head no.  

“All right.  Well, don’t blame me if you get this all dirty.”

She unzipped the bag over her shoulder and pulled out a pink sweater, with a butterfly on it.  Heavily patched, rather stretched-out, and exactly the thing she needed.

Mabel pulled the sweater over her head, sat in the chair, and pulled her arms and legs into the garment, wrapping her arms around her knees.  Her parents dragged two chairs to either side, and squeezed her shoulders, letting her have the longest, most painful, most cry-until-your-face-hurts session of Sweater Town she had ever experienced.

 

* * *

 

 

It was past dinnertime (as if she could eat) when they transferred Dipper from surgery to his hospital room.  Her mom had, by then, convinced Mabel to clean up a little, and she helped her daughter wash her hair in the sink of a hospital bathroom.  Mr. Pines had dutifully braved the reporters outside the hospital, and the reporters outside their empty home, to collect changes of clothes for everyone.  He seemed particularly upset that Mabel was so far gone she didn’t even criticize his random (and thus awful) selection of Mabel’s shirts and skirts.

Mabel’s threadbare butterfly sweater was still in good shape - Dipper’s blood had almost entirely dried by the time she handled it - so she continued to wear it, so stretched out it went well past her skirt, all the better to hide in when needed.  And it was _needed_.  Now that she could actually see Dipper, she couldn’t bear to do so.  How could she?  She orchestrated all this.  Put him in the line of fire.  

“Mr. and Mrs. Pines,” said the doctor.  “Dipper is just getting out of recovery now, and we’ll have someone bring you up to his room in a few minutes.  I’d like you to know the surgery went very well, and his chances are extremely good.”

“Is he awake?”

“Not yet, no.  He’ll be sedated until tomorrow.  We’ve had to put a tube into his throat to help him breathe, but he shouldn’t need that for very long.  He’s suffered a punctured lung here,” the doctor said, pointing to the approximate location of the first bullet on his own chest, “but it’s amazing how quickly a kid his age can recover from that sort of injury.  We’re going to be watching his oxygen levels very carefully but he ought to be breathing on his own tomorrow.  The other wound, unfortunately, is a bit more complicated.  The bullet missed the lung but struck one of the bones in his shoulder, and cut an important blood vessel.  That’s all repaired right now, but we’re a little worried about the blood flow in his right arm.”

“He’s not … he’s not going to lose it, is he?” asked Mr. Pines.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.  For now we’re just going to keep a close watch.  If his perfusion gets worse, we still have a number of surgical options before we’d even _consider_ amputation.  Let me stress that isn’t even on the table right now.  But until then, it’s critical that arm doesn’t get manhandled too much.  If you’re going to hold his hand I’d prefer you stick to his left side.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Pines.

“And I figure you might need some good news, so here it is.  No injuries to his central nervous system.  Spine, head, all totally fine.  His blood oxygen got pretty low, and we’re going to be doing some cognitive tests after we extubate, but I don’t anticipate any deficits.  I can't promise anything, of course, but I fully expect him breathing and talking normally this time tomorrow, and walking around the day after that.”

“Oh, thank god,” said Mr. Pines.

“Ah, and there’s the nurse.  She’ll take you to him.  I’ll be doing my rounds tomorrow morning, so we can talk again then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dipper was a mess of tubes and wires, beeping boxes, flashing lights.  Someone had put him in a hospital gown.  The contents of his pockets were in a clear plastic bag at the end of the bed; the nurse explained that the police had taken his clothes for evidence.

Her mother finally broke down upon seeing Dipper, and her father pulled up a chair for her to sit in as she kissed his face and cradled his left hand in hers, whispering softly about how proud she was of him, how brave he was, how strong he was.  Telling him everything was going to be okay.

But there was something weird about this room.  She could feel it.  Someone had set up a spell around Dipper’s bed, so that anytime she got within four feet of him, something gripped her heart and crushed it, and she couldn’t breathe, and she needed to throw up.  So she stumbled backward, caught her breath, let the dizziness fade.  And tried again.  And again.

_I can’t do it.  I can’t get close to him.  Can’t touch him.  It hurts too much.  It hurts so much I can’t breathe._

“Mabel, honey, come here,” said Mrs. Pines.  “The nurse said he can probably hear us.  Why don’t you come close and tell him you’re okay?”

_Not okay because I’m not okay nothing is okay oh god Dipper what have I done why aren’t the police here why haven’t they arrested me yet I killed you I murdered you bang bang shot you down why oh god oh Jesus oh hell -_

Mabel took a step forward, turned green, fell to her hands and knees, and vomited.

 

* * *

 

 

The hospital sheets were itchy.  

Mabel opened her eyes.  She was laying in a gurney in the hallway outside Dipper’s room.  She blinked.  How long was she asleep?

It must be very late.  She couldn’t see any hospital staff.  No patients.  No visitors.  No one at all.  Not even the police officers guarding Dipper’s room.

_Oh god._

She leapt to her feet, dashed for the door, slammed it open with her shoulder.

Kevin was there.

Of _course_ he was there.

“You - how did you get here?  Where is everyone?”

“Hey Mabel,” Kevin said.  “You know how I said I wasn’t going to kill him?”

The gun flashed in his hand, and he pressed the muzzle to Dipper’s left temple, jostling his head a little as if to try to wake him up.

“Kevin, _please_ ,” she wailed.  “I swear to god, I will do anything, _anything_ , if you just leave him alone!”

Kevin smirked at her, suggestively raised an eyebrow.

“Anything?” he asked.  “Really?”

_Yes, anything.  Anything and everything.  Sex stuff.  Weird stuff.  Degrading stuff.  I know that’s what you’re really after.  What you really want.  You think it’s a tough choice?  Something I have to debate?  Well, it isn’t.  If it saves Dipper’s life, I don’t even have to think about it._

“Really,” she said.

He waved the gun back and forth, making her flinch, as he considered her offer.

“Mabel babe, you know what?”

“What?”

“I don’t believe you.”

There was a terribly loud noise, and the right side of Dipper’s pillow became very wet and very red.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mabel?  Mabel honey?”

She jumped up, looking back and forth.  She was sleeping on the couch in Dipper’s hospital room, a bucket next to her, her mother in a chair beside her.

“Mabel, are you all right?  You were screaming in your sleep…”

It was dark - she must have passed out earlier, when she couldn’t get to the bed, and now …

_Dipper._

She stumbled forward, groggy, bits of her arms and legs half-asleep from lying down weird, and fell against the left side of Dipper’s bed.

“Careful honey, don’t pull his IV line,” said Mr. Pines.

She gripped Dipper’s hand, held tight.  For dear life.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “Oh god, I’m so sorry.  I won’t do that again.  I’ll stay close, I promise.  Just get better, okay?  That’s a good deal, right?  I stay here and you get better?”

She grinned through the tears, made his left hand into a fist, and bopped it with her own.

“See?” she said.  “It’s official now.  No t-takebacks.”  She wiped her face.  “We’re … we’re gonna hang out tomorrow.  Watch some TV together.  Crappy daytime TV, with soap operas and infomercials and whatever other stuff they have here.  And you … you are going to be _on point_ when you make fun of things with me.  I expect p-puns, mister, and they better be a-awful…”

She shook, the tears coming too fast now for her to speak through them.  Her father gripped her shoulders, gently massaging the tenseness of her muscles.

“D-dad, I … I’m … I’m not going home tonight.  And I … I’m gonna skip s-school tomorrow,” she gasped.   “And … and there’s no way … no way you can make me g-go, even if … even if you ground me forever and ever … but I’m never … I’m never leaving this room, Dad.  Not until Dipper’s awake.”

She felt his breath, the delicate kiss on the crown of her head.

“I know, sweetie.  I know.  When you’re ready, make me up a list of what you need from home.  The four of us are going to have a little camping trip tonight.”

She nodded, and rested her head on the edge of Dipper’s bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Her list included her three most critical stuffed animals, a pack of cards, some board games, her knitting kit (a Get Better Sweater was in the early design stages) another change of clothes, one of Dipper’s ball caps, some snacks, her laptop and some select CDs and DVDs, and the contents of the square box in the middle shelf of her desk: her emergency sticker collection.  

It was close to noon the next day when the nurses had finally given up asking her to stop putting stickers on all the beeping things surrounding Dipper.  And she was quite proud of her handiwork: once Dipper awoke there was no direction he could possibly look without seeing one.  This was critical, because she might not be facing her when he awoke.  Or she might be on the other side of the room, or in the bathroom, or somewhere nearby, where he couldn’t see her.  And if that happened, he’d see the puffy unicorns and stars and rainbows and smiley faces and know immediately that he was in a safe place, and she was all right, and she was with him.

With this work done, Mabel was comfortable with leaving Dipper’s room for the hour it took for police to interview her, and she explained what happened as best as she could, crying quite a lot less than she expected.  Her dad stayed with her, hugged her through the worst parts ( _every part was the worst part_ ).  The detectives told her how brave she was, how her quick-thinking saved Dipper’s life, making no mention how her slow-thinking put Dipper’s life in such danger to begin with.

Soon she was back at Dipper's beside again, holding his hand, stroking his knuckles with her fingers.  Her laptop was up and running on the bedside table, a playing BABBA albums non-stop (their Dad was only _barely_ tolerating this) and she was singing along.

“Ngf,” said Dipper.

She shot awake.  Was she asleep?  She glanced one way and another.  Mom and Dad were gone.  Was this a dream?  Oh, god, not another one of those …

“Ngf,” said Dipper again.

She squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back.

_Oh hell, here come the waterworks._

She wiped her face with her free hand, then brushed his cheek.

“C’mon Dipstick.  You’ve been sleeping all day, and I’m so b-bored,” she choked out.

He opened his eyes, eyelashes fluttering, staring blankly at the ceiling for a moment, and then flicking one way and then the other.  Taking stock of her sticker art.

“Nongf,” he said.

His brows furrowed, and he released her hand, reaching for the breathing tube sticking out of his mouth.

“Stop!” she said, pulling his hand away.  “Dipper, there’s … there’s a tube in your throat, so you can breathe.  They’ll take it out soon, but you have to leave it alone for now.  Okay?

He nodded.  His eyes glanced to the side again, as if he was thinking, remembering, and then shot wide open.  His left hand flew to her, grabbing her arm.  Tears welled in his eyes.

“I’m okay,” she said.  “I’m okay, Dipper.  You … you were perfect.  You did perfect.  I didn’t even get a scratch.  I’m safe.  We’re both safe.”

He blinked, nodded again.  She grabbed a tissue and wiped his cheeks.

“I’m gonna call the nurse and tell them you’re awake, okay?”

He shook his head no.

“Dipper?”

He reached out, pointed to the pony sticker on the railing of the bed, the rainbow sticker on the IV pole, and the star sticker she placed on her cheek a few hours earlier.

She smiled, drew the sheet out of her pocket, held it out for him, and he poked one with his index finger.

“Ooo, blue crescent moon,” she said.  “Good choice.”

She peeled off the sticker, placed it on Dipper’s cheek, and nodded in satisfaction.

“Lookin’ good, Dipper,” she said.  She sucked in a breath, wet, painful.  “L-lookin’ real … r-real good … hah …”

His hand found hers, squeezed tight, and when she got her crying under control she squeezed back and hit the nurse call button.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dipper!” came the call from the doorway.

Still gripping Dipper’s hand at his bedside, Mabel turned to her parents, each holding a cup of coffee, Dad with a bag of something that smelled like sweet pastries, rapidly closing the distance between the doorway and Dipper’s bed.  She had the vague memory they had left for a coffee break a while ago, telling her so while she balanced her chin on the handrail of the hospital bed and fought to keep her eyes open.  Dipper’s gaze flitted from the her to the nurse checking vitals, to their parents, who were elated to see he was quite clearly awake.

Mabel pulled back, letting her parents have some time with him.

A doctor came, did some tests, and pulled out the breathing tube.  Mabel had to turn around and dry-heave a bit - augh, god, it was a totally nasty sound - but she quickly composed herself and returned to Dipper’s side.  Dipper was still exhausted, barely able to move, barely able to stay awake more than five minutes at a time, and groggy from the drugs, but he was now breathing on his own, and able to talk, if only haltingly.

Mom and Dad said their tearful hellos, with Dipper assuring them he was fine in a raspy voice.  His breathing was slow and shallow but the doctors seemed satisfied with it.  His right arm, also, seemed to be doing much better, the bluish-white tinge of his skin now a healthier pink, although he seemed to be having some trouble moving his fingers.

Mabel found herself pushed further and further away from Dipper’s bed - now awake, he was suddenly very, very busy.  More doctors.  Cognitive testing.  Where are you, what season is it, draw this, count that, write this.  Despite the look of exhaustion on his face, she could clearly see Dipper’s determination and focus, wanting to get everything right.  Every so often his eyes flicked to her, patiently knitting on the other side of the room, but the clock ticked by, and it was the least she could to to be patient, to wait for the right time to talk to him.  It hurt, it hurt so very bad, but she knew he was still in danger, and she wouldn’t dare interrupt the string of hospital workers running back and forth.  All she could do was knit, and listen, and watch.

There were tests on how strong his lungs were.  Dipper blowing hard into tubes attached to what look like plastic toys for toddlers, his breaths spinning wheels, sliding balls around, all sorts of weird things.  Her parents crying when the doctor told them what percentage of his lung capacity he had right now.  The doctor’s assurance that this percentage was very normal for his condition, and would likely improve.  That Dipper might nonetheless be limited, unable to do any serious sports for a few years, and while it’s unfortunate that might spoil any chances of Dipper seeking athletic scholarships, that was the new reality for the Pines family.

Mabel snorts, laughs, cackles, at the idea that Dipper was ever in the running for an athletic scholarship. Dipper was not an athlete, never was, never would be. He wasn’t on any teams. Quiz Bowl, yeah, but that wasn’t even a _thing_.  And yet the doctor is talking so solemnly, like Dipper just blew his chance to start for Notre Dame next year.

Her parents - even the doctor! - turn to her, sitting in her chair, laughing like a loon.

And something _cracks_ inside her.

She remembers where she is, and why she is there, and that it’s only been an hour since Dipper has been able to breathe on his own.  She remembers Dipper was shot, because of her.  She remembers Dipper didn’t hesitate, not even a fraction of a second, to put himself in danger to protect her.  She remembers that he _always_ does this, that their adventures in Gravity Falls are all the proof she needs that this is quite simply _instinct_ for Dipper.  That her brother would do anything and everything for her.  That he would _die_ for her, and he had _proved_ it.  And now, finally, he has been hurt, very badly, possibly in ways that will never fully heal.  For her.   _Always_ for her.

And now …

And now, she is _laughing_ at him,  because she is _horrible_ .  Because Dipper was _wrong_ , and she was not worth saving.  Because she _never_ thinks things through, never shows Dipper the sort of kindness and respect he has so obviously earned by being there for her, every time, no matter what it cost him.  Because she is so flighty she could make up jokes in her head, and laugh at them, lost in the moment, losing all any awareness of how bad off he is, what he has sacrificed for her.

She strangles her laughter in her throat, turning into gurgling gasps.  Her knitting clatters to the linoleum floor.  The tears are coming down before she gets out of the room.  She fast-walks down the hall, to the elevator.  She goes to the lobby, goes outside, goes to the ambulance bay where men and women in blue and purple surgical scrubs mill around and smoke cigarettes.  She finds a bench and pulls her feet into her sweater and rocks herself back and forth, crying in short, painful gasps.

Her dad finds her five minutes later, and sits beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “That was so horrible.  I can’t believe …”

“Mabel,” he says.  “You know Dipper isn’t the only victim here, right?”

She is thrown by this; she was braced for a well-earned dressing-down, but his tone is so strangely conciliatory.  As if _he_ were apologizing to _her_.

“You’ve been through something so horrible your Mom and I can’t even get a grip on it,” he continued.  “We’re going to arrange counseling for the two of you, once things get a little more settled with Dipper’s health.  But for now, the two of you are processing a lot of awful things, and we’re not going to judge you for it.”

“Dad,” she said.  “I’m sorry … for some stupid reason I thought it was funny … Dipper being an athlete … but … I mean, it’s _real_.  Something’s really been taken away from him.  Augh, god.  I bet he’s so angry at me.”

He chuckled.

“Dad?”

“Oh, come on, Mabel.  It’s not like I didn’t think the exact same thing.  If I’d been through what you’d been through, I might have let my thoughts get away with me too.”

“Geez … I still … seriously, Dad.  How mad is he, right now?  What can I do to fix this?”

“Mabel, sweetie.  Dipper shouldn’t even be able to move right now, but when he saw how upset you were, he sat up and started getting out of bed.  I’m sure he’d have crawled out here by now if the hospital staff didn’t hold him down.  And when he gave up on trying to chase you … well, you know that look he gets when he’s made a decision.  He just sat back and declared the medical tests were over.  That he wasn’t going to cooperate again until they gave him an hour to talk to you one-on-one.”

She slipped her feet out of her sweater, clasped her knees with her hands.

“He’s not … Dipper’s not mad at me?  Really, even after that?”

He shook his head.

“Of course not, Mabel.  He’s worried about you.  We all are.  Come on.  You promised you’d stay beside him, didn’t you?  He’s going to hold you to that.  So please, don’t make him wait any longer, okay?”

Mr. Pines led Mabel back into the hospital, to the elevator, to the ward, to the room.

Their parents gave them some space, and she sat beside Dipper, arms on the bed handrail, her chin resting atop, and spoke the words she’d been longing to tell him since yesterday.

“Hey buttface,” she said.

“Hey goofball,” he said.

And that … that was the extent of what she had for him.

It came up on her so quick, the tears, the blubbery sobs, thick and wet and snotty, and he reached for her shoulder, pulled her close, and she didn’t want to hurt him but he _made_ her, he made her put her head on his chest, and she realised he was aiming for his right shoulder, one of the few places were bullet holes weren’t ( _I shot you down bang bang_ ) and an all-new chorus of wails came from her.

A minute or two later, she pulled away, and she couldn’t help but laugh at the thoroughly wet shoulder of Dipper’s hospital gown.  His eyes were also wet, but if he’d been crying it had no comparison to what just shook out of her.

She was sorry.  She was _so_ sorry.  So guilty.  So ashamed.  So angry at herself.  But she held that back.  She’d beg for his forgiveness later.  One emotion at a time.  For right now, it was just relief.  She didn’t have room for anything else.  

“God, Mabel,” he said.  “You’re supposed to save that stuff for my funeral.”  He sucked in a breath.  “Y-you better swan dive … I want a nice swan dive into my grave.”

“N-no deal,” she said, laugh-crying in his ear.  “If you die before me I’m gonna glitter-bomb your casket all to h-hell.” She giggle-sobbed.  “Saint Peter will be p-picking it out of your teeth..”

Tears turned into laughter as they decided the logistics of this, if doing so would ensure he’d come back as a glittery ghost (“Maybe that’s where orbs come from?”) and so forth.  Twenty minutes later they were watching TV, Dipper scooted off to the side of the hospital bed, Mabel on the bed to his left, furiously knitting her Get Better Sweater (she’d decided on the pattern: orange cat with a white red-crossed ice bag on its head and a thermometer on its mouth, all on a light blue background) and trading quips about the soap opera they were watching.  Mr. and Mrs. Pines were cuddled on the couch, reading a newspaper and a trade magazine, respectively, and in all the ways that mattered, the Pines family may as well have been in their own living room at home.

 

* * *

 

The next few days were a blur; Mabel picked up a composition book from the hospital gift shop to write everything down on and she’d probably have forgotten most of the events otherwise.  

Dipper kept his end of the deal: full medical cooperation so long as Mabel was allowed to come and go as she pleased.  Lung tests, cognitive tests, physical therapy, all with her either bedside or across the room, doing her best not to interfere or distract.  Mental exams showed no significant deficits.  He was upgraded to “soft foods” which were mostly horrible-looking, but Mabel knew enough not to smuggle in outside food.  

By day three, Dipper was doing well enough the Pines family felt comfortable leaving him by early evening and returning home to sleep and clean up and return in the morning.  Mabel was opposed to this, of course, but Dipper convinced her he was fine, he’d see her in the morning, and also, she clearly hadn’t showered in days and was getting a little ripe.  She punched him in his (good!) arm and decided he had a point; her hair felt like the bottom of a fast-food bag.

He was out of bed on day four (he had just been shot, in the chest, with actual bullets, holy crap!) standing with help from orderlies, walking to a chair, sitting, then going back.  Most of the machines were disconnected at this point; he had an IV in his left arm (right arm was iffy, circulation-wise, so far as Mabel understood).

Day five.  On unsteady feet, left hand gripping his IV stand as a makeshift walker, Dipper could get out of bed on his own, unplug the IV and wrap the cord loosely around it (it had an internal battery good for quite a few hours), get to the bathroom, do his business, get back to the bed, plug the IV back in, sit and lie down.  She could see the strain it took on him.  The exhaustion, the heavy breathing.  Dipper was so tired that when he wiped the sweat from his forehead he didn’t even rearrange his hair, leaving his forehead bare, the birthmark on display for all.  Mabel averted her eyes, and when opportunity came, tousled his hair or slapped his hat on his head, so that Dipper would not be naked.

And she sat back and watched him struggle, sat in a chair by the wall and balled her fists and curled her toes in her shoes and held back tears as she watched him rebuild his strength, knowing she must let him do this on his own, even as every fiber of her being told her to leap to her feet and get to his side and carry him.

Day six.  Dipper upgraded to unrestricted diet.  Except he needed someone to cut his food, because his right hand was barely able to grasp a knife.  The nurses explained, when they realized the error, that “cut up food for patient” was a perfectly normal request for the kitchen, but Mabel insisted it was better she do it.  The chicken cutlet would be warmer, somehow.  The bites of food more carefully considered in terms of size and shape.  

But mostly it was because she was _dying_ for the chance to help him, and as soon as there was a thing flagged “Dipper needs someone else to do this for him” she’s on it.  Sure, it was nothing for some worker in the hospital kitchen to cut up the entree before it got packed up and sent up to Dipper’s room.  But it was _everything_ for Mabel to show this entree to Dipper, to cut it up perfectly for him, just how he would want it, and present it to him.

It was art.

It was her creation.

It was the best she could do for him right now.

And the way Dipper rolled his eyes at this - the way he said it wasn’t necessary, and he could just add that option to the menu - and yet he _never did_ \- the way he blushed at her attention but put up with it…

She knew, in her heart, she was being selfish again.  She was making this all about her.  Mabel, the caretaker.  Mabel, the nurse.  She knew Dipper put up with her just to make her feel better about what happened.  And still … he _did_ blush.  So he obviously enjoyed this, at some level.

While Dipper’s injured arm was past the “might fall off” level of danger, it clearly wasn’t cooperating with him.  With the fog of anesthesia lifted, he had all sorts of weird (well, normal for Dipper, but still weird) thoughts and ideas to add to his journal, some of them regarding Gravity Falls and some concerning whatever random mysteries he’d been turning over in his head the past week.  Normally, this would go in the years-old and nearly-full Journal 4, but Dipper insisted Mabel leave the book in his bedroom and never bring it to the hospital, that it wasn’t “safe” here.  She wasn’t sure if he was afraid it would get lost, or stolen, but she could imagine some rando picking it up and reading it, with Dipper powerless to stop them.  Obviously, such a person would immediately recognize it as some very creative fiction and hand it right back, but she appreciated that Dipper was particularly protective of the book and would not enjoy the stress of such an encounter.  In its stead, she bought him a legal pad from the gift shop - professional looking, no cat stencils or anything! - and here he learned the full extent of his right-side weakness.

He really couldn’t write.  Not that it was sloppy, although it was, but he couldn’t even grip a pen hard enough to make a mark on the paper.  He switched to his left hand, making slow, sloppy, jagged letters.  Mabel did her best to compliment his left-handed writing but she was not at all convincing.

While all this was going on, Mr. and Mrs. Pines finally met with the press, issued a statement and answered some questions, which seemed to either satisfy them or bore them enough to mostly vacate.  A local political scandal popped up later in the week, which also helped.  Some of Dipper and Mabel’s friends visited briefly, and Mabel fielded phone calls from Gravity Falls.  Detectives interviewed Dipper and Mabel several times over the week, always separately, and in the final interview they asked them to confirm a mugshot was the same person who fired the gun.  And this is how Mabel learned that Kevin had been caught speeding in Nevada, was arrested on a California warrant, and was due to be transported to an Alameda jail in the next few days.

 

* * *

 

 

Day seven.  Dipper was stable.  Healthy.  Ready to be discharged.  The IV was pulled.

A nurse came to instruct Mrs. Pines on wound care.  Mabel insisted she attend.  Dipper insisted she be allowed to attend.  And Dipper lay in the hospital bed as a nurse removed the bandages and cleaned the bullet wounds and surgical incisions, and then reapplied bandages, all under the careful eyes of his mother and his sister.  Here was the first time Mabel saw the puckered skin on Dipper’s upper right and lower left chest, accented with silvery surgical steel staples that were to be removed in an outpatient facility three days later.  Here was the first time Mabel saw the incisions near each bullet wound, delicately sewn back together with sutures that had already mostly dissolved.  Here was the first time she saw the full extent of Dipper’s wounds, the sacrifice he had made for her.  She was proud of herself, that she held the tears back so well, because she knew how important it was to pay attention to the right way to clean his wounds with peroxide without doing more injury, what warning signs to look for, what a healing wound looked like versus a wound that was infected or otherwise becoming worse.

The twins had already been out of school for a week, and Dipper would probably need another week or two recovering at home before he’d be healed enough to return.  But there was no reason for Mabel to miss any more classes, her parents said.  Still, Mabel insisted.  Dipper didn’t need much help, just someone to stay in the house to watch over him, which she could do.  She could help with his physical therapy.  They could get take-home assignments from school and do them together.  

The Pines parents discussed amongst themselves, and agreed.  It was obvious Mabel’s head wouldn’t be on her schoolwork anyway, nor could they blame her, and arranged for her to have an additional week off.  They continued to take time off work, but Dipper’s recovery was going so well - seemingly improving with every hour Mabel was by his side - that a few days after Dipper’s discharge, the Pines parents returned to work, leaving the twins to their own devices.

Mabel was no slouch, either - she had thoroughly studied Dipper’s discharge papers and drew up a careful schedule of wound care and lung exercises and physical therapy, which she followed to the letter.  A list even Dipper could be impressed by.  Nearly every day ended with Dipper sweating from exertion, but when their work was done, she’d draw him a bath and prepare dinner when he cleaned himself up.  

If Dipper was hurt so badly he needed help bathing, or even using the bathroom … well, he _didn’t,_ but if he _did_ … Mabel wouldn’t have hesitated even a second.  (Their parents would likely be uncomfortable with that arrangement, however.  And she couldn’t even imagine Dipper’s response to such a suggestion.)  She’d let him lean on her going up and down the stairs, and with his arm still weak he had trouble getting shirts on and off by himself, and that’s about it.

Hell, if anything, Dipper bathing every day was a vast improvement over his prior personal hygiene.

And so, other than the four hours or so of actual in-home-nurse work, Mabel was free to hang out with him, play video games (in which she could now effortlessly kick his ass, although his fine motor control was steadily improving) and watch movies.  They had homework, of course, but the load was fairly light, and even normally studious Dipper was okay with falling behind a couple weeks and catching up later.


	4. Chapter 4

Dipper padded from the bathroom to his bedroom, his mouth watering at the scent of what might have been homemade Margherita-style pizza.  Mom & Dad would be home in an hour, and the pizza wasn’t even in the oven yet, but he could smell the fresh basil even in the upstairs hall.

Mom had brought him to a clinic the day before to remove the staples over the bullet wounds, and the marks they left on his skin still stung.  It was ten days now, since the shooting, his third day at home, and the first day their parents had gone to work and left him and Mabel alone.

He was doing well, all things considered.  The wounds were healing properly, but still needed daily care.  His right arm was getting stronger but he still needed help with shirts and fixing his bandages after his bath.  It was a little embarrassing, of course, but Mabel took it very seriously, and that helped put him at ease.

Tossing the towel on the bed, he pulled on some boxers and sweatpants and called downstairs for Mabel.

She came in with the TV tray she’d been using for her nursing duties, piled with bandages and antiseptic and pills.  She laid out his before-dinner pills, which he swallowed, and then inspected the wounds on his chest.  

She made a curt nod of satisfaction and proceeded to dab the wounds with antiseptic cream and place gauze and medical tape over them, not tightly, just enough to keep them from rubbing against or weeping into his shirt.

She picked up the shirt he had on the bed beside him, and rolled her eyes (dressing him was apparently too much for her to avoid commenting, however vaguely, on his awful fashion sense) and was about to help him get it on when she suddenly paused, narrowed her eyes, and wrinkled her nose at him.

“What?” Dipper asked.

He leaned back on his bed as she approached, but it was no good - she grabbed him by the shoulders (avoiding his wounds of course) and brought his face to his head.   _Sniffed_.

“Mabel, what the hell?”

“Dipper, are you even washing your hair?”

“What?”

“You’re all greasy and you barely even smell like shampoo.”

She frowned at him.

“I … come on, Mabel.  Even my _good_ arm is noodle-fied by the time I get through your PT.  So yeah, maybe I’m half-assing the haircare for a little bit, but give me a break, I’ve only been home a couple days now.”

“Dipper!” she said.  Less angry now.  More hurt, even betrayed.  “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“Mabel, it’s not a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal!” she cried.  “Dipper, I’m supposed to be taking _care_ of you!  How can I do that if you won’t tell me what’s going on?”  


“Mabel, I … all right, I’m sorry.  Yeah, fine, I can’t really wash my own hair right now, okay?”

“And the rest of you?”

“Mabel?”

Her face scrunched up into something horrible.  Utter pain.  He felt sick even looking at it, that he’d make Mabel so upset she’d make that face.

“Please,” she gasped.  “If you’re just sitting in that bathtub doing nothing, you gotta _tell_ me.  Dipper, your wounds are still healing, and if you get an infection … I’m _serious_ , your lungs are still jacked up, and you could get pneumonia so freaking easy right now …”  She sniffed, wiped tears from her face.  “Please, Dipper, I’m not joking around here.  If you need more help … if you need someone else to come in and take over for me with personal stuff like that …”

“Ah, geez, Mabel.  I’m sorry, I just … I dunno, it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Dipper, I can’t … it’s okay if you don’t want me to take care of you.  I won’t mind at all, I swear to God I won’t.  But if you can’t tell me stuff like that … it might be better for me to tell Mom and Dad I’m in over my head, and get you a proper nurse.”

_God, she was crying.  Good job, Dipper.   Mabel, who has been by your side, taking care of your every need, 24 hours a day, for a week and a half now, is crying.  Because of you.  Because you’re an ass._

He shook his head.

“No way.  Look, I’m fine with the whole bath thing, no problems.  It’s actually pretty nice - slow-going, more relaxing than a shower.  Although I wouldn’t mind you quit with the bath bombs.”

She rolled her eyes, as that clearly wasn’t an option.

“But yeah, I’m having some trouble washing my hair.  I don’t know if that’s something you-”

She already had him by the (left!) arm, dragging him into the bathroom.  He was still sputtering excuses when she placed a stool in the bathtub, set him upon it, and started to clatter through the cabinets for plastic pitchers and shampoo.

“So are we…?”

She ignored him for moment, and then started the hand wand on the shower, and began rinsing his hair.  His sweatpants were immediately soaked and clinging to his skin.  But the water was comfortably warm.  Her fingers wove into his hair, and once thoroughly soaked, she turned the water off, squirted shampoo, and started kneading his head.

He embarrassed himself with a groan of pleasure - her fingers felt _amazing!_ \- and quickly bit his lips, trying to silence himself.

_What the hell this feels nice but why does it feel capital-N Nice god even kinda misspelled nice (noice!) and oh dear well good to know that’s working still oh this is great sweatpants and my sister and yeah great time for a boner so glad you could join us I mean what the hell …_

He adjusted himself - thighs tight together, hands innocently clasped over them _so innocent pay no attention_ and tried to focus but _oh god it feels good, I mean it’s Mabel so it shouldn’t feel good, not_ this _good, but damn dude she is a shampoo goddess she’s so good at this oh crap this might be a fetish oh shit is this a thing is this where I learn a thing I’m into oh shit hold on hold on HOLD ON._

He bit the inside of his cheek, dug fingernails into the skin of his thighs.   _Grunkle Stan shaving his back.  Grunkle Stan shaving his back._

By the time he regained himself, Mabel had rinsed his hair and was aggressively rubbing his head with a towel.  She even went so far as bringing out the blow-dryer and gel and comb (“If I’m going to do your hair we’re going all the way here - no chance I’ll let you finish up and ruin my good work.”) and by the end of it he … looked pretty good.

Like, actual no-shit looking in the mirror and kind of impressed by the dude looking back at him.

Of course, he ignored the way Mabel’s wet shirt clung to her chest.  Of course, Mabel ignored the way Dipper’s wet sweatpants clung to his legs and … area.  And of course, she was chipper and pleased with herself and met him downstairs when they were both done changing into dry clothes, and she replaced his wet bandages, sniffed his hair again, and gave him a thumbs up.

The awkwardness quickly faded away, and after Mabel stuck the pizza in the oven she joined him on the couch, reclined over the cushions with her legs dangling over his lap, and they watched crappy sci-fi horror films until their parents came home.

Dipper made a note to mentally prepare himself next time Mabel decided to pamper him with one of her glorious hair-washing sessions - it would be very nice to close his eyes and relax and melt into her touch, and not worry about his body getting away from itself.

 

* * *

 

She lay in bed, bedroom clock drifting close to midnight, thoughts drifting to the events of that afternoon.

Most particularly: The sound that Dipper made, and what it _did_ to her.

It was obvious she had simply caught him by surprise, and had more talent at scalp massage than either of them realized.  That was all, really.  If Dipper should happen to make a deeply satisfied groan at such a sensation … well, that’s just normal, right?  Nothing _sexual_ about it, not even a little bit.

And still …

Augh, so gross.  Her own brother.  Still too injured to go to school.  Unable to even wash his own hair, or put on a shirt.  Leaving himself completely vulnerable to her, knowing full well she’d never take advantage of him _that way_ , because, I mean, that would just be _unthinkable_.  

God, what was wrong with her?  After everything Dipper had done for her, after putting his life on the line, all she could think about is … ah, what a mess.  I mean, only ten days ago, he was ...

It was horrible.  So horrible.  The worst moment of her life, bar none.  The sound of the shots.  The way he collapsed in her arms.  The blood.

 _I can’t stop thinking about it, and yet, somehow, the fear isn’t as strong anymore.  Something else is taking over, bit by bit, each time I remember.  The fear of him dying dissipates, because I know he doesn’t die.  And the love for him grows, because neither of us knew at the time he would survive.  And my love grows and grows until the container I keep it in - the part of my heart where I keep all my love for my twin brother, who is the awesomest person who ever was - well, it just_ overflows _.  And the part of my heart where I love boyfriends might just be a little too close to that container, and maybe a little Dipper-love splashed into there.  Yeah, that makes sense.  Doi, so obvious now.  So all I have to do is think hard about Dipper, how he’s the best brother ever, how I love him as a twin and a sibling, and make that part of my heart big enough to contain all that love, so none of that bleeds into the part where I want to fuck his br-_

She gasped.  Sucked in a breath.  Oh no oh no she most certainly didn’t think that.

“Fuck his boring DD&MD game up,” said Mabel, to no one in particular.

She held her breath, stared at the door.  She wasn’t sure how loud she actually said that.  After a few seconds without hearing movement, she started breathing again.

_All right, Mabes.  Let’s get your shit together here.  You’re a little confused, that’s all.  Traumatic experience. Lifetime Movie-level.  Stop trying to make it romantic.  Because it’s not.  He’s your brother.  He loves you like a sister, and that’s it._

_… wait …_

_… why am I worried about how_ he _loves_ me _?  Like_ that’s _the reason I’m not jumping Dipper’s bones?  Like I’d be all aboard the twincest train if I thought he was down to clown?_

_Fuck fuck fuckity fuck._

She stared at the ceiling.  God, her dad threw a fit when she put up all those glow-in-the-dark stars.  And, well, probably the rainbow paint was more of an issue.  Yeah, come to think of it, painting the ceiling was the bigger problem.  But it was so colorful.  So dynamic.  She didn’t understand how Dipper could lay in his bed and stare up at a blank ceiling.  So boring.  How could you ever look up and play with yours-

_La la la can’t hear you!_

_Okay, okay.  Hi Mabel, it’s Mabel. Guess what we haven’t done in like weeks now?  Yep!  So duh, that’s the problem.  You’re just too wound up.  I mean, you haven’t been on a date since Kev-_

_NO._

_…_

_You haven’t been on a date since Jake.  Oh, Jake.  Jake Karzysnik.  So few vowels, but he makes it up in pecs, doesn’t he?  Oh yes.  Oh yes he does! Jesus, Mabel, why did you break up with him again?_

_… right.  Yeah, the uh …_

_Dammit, it was going so good.  And he was the second-longest boyfriend I ever had.  Almost three months!  And he smelled so nice, even stopped using Axe just because I asked, and on our two-month anniversary I gave him a Nautica cologne/aftershave set and he obliged and had nothing for me, but that’s okay, because he’d surely have bought me perfume if I smelled anywhere near as bad as … honestly, if the dude was just a little bit subtle about the goddamn body spray …_

_Augh.  Best boyfriend so far.  No … no, that’s not it.  I mean …_

_Mermando._

_Hauuuughhnmmm Mermando.  Oh yeah, that’s the ticky-ticky.  Yeah, we were twelve then, almost thirteen, but I can imagine what four years have done to him.  God, the most beautiful specimen of man.  Er, merman.  I bet he has a real nice …_

_… wait, does he have a …_

_… yeah, merman.  Keep it above the waist, because … well, honestly I’m a bit afraid to think too much about how the fish-parts go._

_And he still sends letters!  Every summer Dipper and I hit the public pool in Gravity Falls and Mr. Poolcheck rants at me about the mess and hands me a garbage bag full of glass bottles, a message in each.  Tells me this prank is getting old.  Every summer.  For four years now.  But the letters keep coming.  And Mr. Poolcheck never throws them away.  And I don’t know how or where to write back.  Mermando never tells me.  I’ve thrown eighteen messages-in-a-bottle into the San Francisco Bay by this point and as far as I know he’s never gotten a one._

_I mean, I get it.  He’s crazy busy now.  Told me in his letter he gave birth to twelve kids.  Which … I am totally sure is his way of saying his_ wife _gave birth to twelve kids.  Because … well, we’re not going to even consider otherwise, are we..._

_All right.  So … let’s take Mermando off the Mabel Time playlist for a bit.  Back to Jake?_

_Jake Karzysnik.  Nice hair.  Lacrosse player.  Liked my weirdness, took it in stride.  Always a bonus.  God, the pecs.  The six-pack.  Like he was carved out of marble.  Hauuurrrm, that’s nice.  Decent kisser.  And yeah, he got the touchy-touchy.  He earned it.  Not … well, not talented, a bit too aggressive.  They’re boobs, not play-doh, Jake.  But he … yeah, he got first-and-only super-exclusive-access to inside-the-underwear touching.  And he was … well, he wasn’t bad.  He tried.  It was probably my own hang-ups I didn’t cum.  I mean, it felt nice and all.  But when I called it quits - I mean, not my fault I wasn’t all that wet, and it was getting uncomfortable - he was so … whiney?_

_I mean, seriously. I am giving you some vagina, sir.  If you do not appreciate, I’ll take it right on back, thanks.  Do you even know … you don’t even know, do you?  You were the first guy to actually stick a finger up in that business.  And that was a_ huge freaking deal _to me, and when it wasn’t working, and I felt even more vulnerable you … you didn’t tell me it was okay.  You told me quite the opposite.  That I was being mean.  That I wasn’t giving you a chance.  And then … and then … holy shit and then …_

She scrunched up her face, feeling wetness on her cheeks.  Jesus, how could she think of Jake and still have this sneak up on her?  Why couldn’t she remember Jake was a Bad Guy, and all the good stuff between them doesn’t count anymore? Why did she sometimes forget, and become attracted to him all over again, as if he didn’t do what he did to her?

_And then you said … you said … that it wasn’t fair … that I should … because you did stuff to me … I should do stuff to you … and  … ah, god, you took it out …  and yeah, it wasn’t the first time … I’ve given you a handy before, totally cool, but you said … you said it wasn’t enough … that I worked you up too much …_

_… fuck, I mean … you didn’t force me … when I said “no fucking way” and left your bedroom, left your parents’ house, you didn’t stop me._

_But you could have._

_You absolutely could have._

_And I’m glad you didn’t offer to drive me home, because I probably would have taken the offer, and I don’t know what would have happened once you had me in your shitty little Subaru hatchback._

_And when I was two blocks away, on some random street corner, trying to deal with the fact I had just gone from zero to sexytimes to a pit of fear and disgust … when I pulled out my cellphone and called the one person I knew would come and pick me up no matter what … answering his phone so causally, hearing me say “Dipper,” barely keeping myself together … and the sudden shuffle of him moving, running down the stairs … I didn’t even have to ask … the way he said “it’s okay, I’m coming, just tell me where you are” … I couldn’t help it … I burst into tears, blubbering out the street signs I could see … because I knew …_ **_I knew it was okay_ ** _… I knew he was coming for me … and even though it broke the rules … he stayed on the phone the entire time … telling me how close he was … minute by minute … mile by mile … and when our mom’s rusty old minivan turned the corner and pulled beside me … he never asked … never asked what happened … never made me feel like I had to tell him … and he knew just what to say … mentioned the ice cream parlor on the other side of town … a place for us to stop, so I could put myself back together before I had to face Mom and Dad … and before I knew it, we were parked, and Dipper put the wax paper cup in my hands, and I was crying into my birthday-cake-ice-cream-with-sprinkles sundae, and they did a little smiley face on the top, and you have to pay extra for that, and I was just crying my eyes out, barely even ate any of it, that’s how bad it was, and Dipper was there … and he knew, somehow, everything I needed right then …  and I thought … god forgive me, but I thought … if he wasn’t my brother … if I could only find a guy who was even half the man Dipper was … if I could only find a guy who loved me even a fraction as much as Dipper loved me ..._

She wiped her eyes.

_Augh, god.  I’d almost forgotten about that.  Augh what the hell?  All right, this session of Mabel Time is going so far off the rails here … let’s go on back … um … yeah, before Jake.  Steve Caravel._

_Hey, that one might work.  Not a bad guy.  A bit needy.  My first HJ, and that was kind of fun.  Also … he got the downstairs privileges,_ over _the panties.  Also didn’t get me off, but not for lack of trying, and there was nothing about his efforts not to like.  Really, Steve and Jake were the only ones where it got to that level.  That’s not weird, right?  I’m not … that’s not slutty, right?_

 _Steve could’ve worked.  He was a sweetie.  He was just … ah, he was so_ boring _.  And it was like anything I was suddenly into, he was into.  Like he wouldn’t let us argue; anytime we disagreed he’d just drop it.  It was … it was weird, really.  Like there was nothing to him except whatever I wanted him to be.  I mean, I get it.  I was his first capital-G girlfriend, and same on my side - I mean, he was the first guy I dated for longer than a month - so maybe I was on my best behavior too.  But it was like … I mean, he really did seem to want to just make me happy, all the time, saying and doing whatever he thought I wanted, but still … it got to the point that I couldn’t take it anymore … because all I could think about was that summer in Gravity Falls … the wish I had made … and the Perfect Boyfriend I had created for myself.  A boy who dressed with style, who complimented me constantly, who never disagreed with me, and looked … just … like … Dipper._

_Augh, god.  No no no.  God, Mabeltown was a mindfuck.  Dream-Dipper was just a perfect brother, I thought.  Now … now I’m not so sure …_

_And also … he wasn’t perfect.  Not even close.  Dream-Dipper wouldn’t shield me with his body, not like Dipper would.  Because something like that is so incredible I can’t even imagine it.  It just_ happens.

The image comes to her in a flash.  Dipper’s back, his arms spread, body tense, facing off whatever danger might threaten her.  And he’s seventeen, shoulders broad, voice firm.  But also he’s fifteen, and he’s twelve, he’s a toddler, he’s an elementary-school student.  Same posture every time, whether he was facing off bullets or thrown food or God knows what sort of occult horror.  She can’t even count how many times she’s seen this.  Dipper is always there for her, always ready to bear whatever injury might come, so long as she is spared.  She knows this.  She knows this and can’t pretend otherwise, not any longer.  He’s her hero, always has been, always will be, and no boy, no man, could ever compete.  The feeling that she’s the most precious, most important thing in the world, something worth incalculable sacrifice, someone worth putting up with, no matter how annoying she can be … no one has ever, _ever_ made her feel that way except Dipper.

Her breathing quickened.  She knew this was wrong.  She knew she shouldn’t.

“Dipper,” she whispered.

She convinces herself this is an emergency, and that’s the only reason she is letting her thoughts go this direction.  And when she slips her hands into her underwear, she shocks herself, at how wet she is.  

It means nothing, she convinces herself.  Just because Dipper is so amazing, so perfect, and so much better than any guy she could ever date, just because she is silently mouthing his name as she slips her fingers in and out, just because she is arching her back and imagining his mouth on hers … that doesn’t mean she want him _that way_ … it means nothing.  The fact she screamed Dipper’s name into a pillow at the moment of climax means nothing.  Just letting off some steam.

The pleasure rolls through her in waves, and she stares at the ceiling again, sweat beading on her forehead.  She needed this, she convinces herself, and with that out of her system, she was right as rain again.  No more weird issues, surely.

Sighing, she pulls a fluffy pillow to her, curls her arms and legs around it, and whispers soft nothings.


	5. Chapter 5

_"I'm casting 'Magic Missile.'"_  
_"Why are you casting 'Magic Missile'?  There's nothing to_ attack _here."_  
_"I ... I'm attacking the_ darkness _!"_  
_\- The Dead Alewives_

 

Something odd was going on.  It was a Saturday afternoon, the first weekend since Dipper got out of the hospital, and he and Mabel were at the grocery store for the weekly shopping run.  This in itself wasn’t unusual - the twins had been driving their mom’s hand-me-down minivan since last October, which included the obligate rights and responsibilities, e.g., weekly groceries, dropping off and picking up dry-cleaning when needed, banking and post office tasks, and various other errands newly-accessible (or at very least, far more convenient) with their drivers’ licenses and (somewhat) reliable mode of transport.  Nor was it unusual for Dipper to join, despite his condition - well into his second week of recovery, he could easily manage an hour or so of slow walking, especially with a shopping cart to lean on.

But Dipper noticed Mabel deviating from the shopping list quite a bit, and purchasing a lot of snack foods and related items, as if she was preparing for a party.

Mabel apparently caught Dipper’s discomfort around the chip-and-dip aisle, where the variety of salsas and cheese dips she loaded into the cart couldn’t possibly be explained by anything else.

“Just chill, bro-bro,” she said.  “I’m not gonna put you up to anything you can’t handle.”

“Mabel, seriously, I’m a mess here.  I can’t really handle a party right now.  And I _absolutely_ can’t handle a full-blown Mabel Party.”

“Dipper, come on.  You trust me right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Then _trust me_ .  I’m _not_ gonna hit you with the -” she jazz-handed for emphasis - “ _Total Mabel Experience_ , all right?  Heck, I won’t even bring the Karaoke machine out.  Just a couple guests, totally low-key.  You’ll have fun, I promise.”

He trusted her, or at least _wanted_ to trust her, but anxiety gnawed at him as they went through the checkout.  Even worse, as they began unloading the shopping cart, Mabel kept swatting his hands away as he tried to lift soda bottles and gallons of milk and bags of potatoes; anything weighing more than five pounds was off-limits; Doctor’s orders.  He felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck, the sweat beading on his forehead, the eyes of a dozen shoppers and cashiers and baggers watching as he gingerly placed breads and chips and other dainty items on the checkout counter, his breathing becoming labored with the mere effort of gripping and holding and placing featherlight items with his weakened right hand, all while his sister tossed gallons of water and 12-packs of canned soda around like they were nothing.

When the bagger had filled the shopping cart back up, and Mabel took the receipt from the cashier, Dipper was relieved, ready to get this over with.

“Sir, can I help you bring this to your car?”

The guy bagging the groceries was college-aged, easily had six inches on Dipper, carried himself like an MMA fighter, and made no effort to hide his physique.  The sort of asshole whose idea of “business casual” was to wear a practically-translucent white dress shirt without any undershirt.  Dipper glared at the guy and the shirt he had _clearly_ painted on this morning - and not a high-coverage paint either; Dipper could practically read the tattoos on his arms.  The green smock he wore over his shirt succeeded only in highlighting the inhuman width of his shoulders and breadth of his chest.

“I … I usually …” was all Dipper could get out.

“We’re fine,” said Mabel.  “Thanks though, you’re sweet!”

The no-undershirt bodybuilder smiled.  “Thanks!  You two have a great weekend!”

Throwing his weight against the cart, Dipper barreled out of there as quickly as he could, Mabel in close pursuit.

“Dipper!”

“What, Mabel?  Jesus, what was _that_!?”

“Don’t you dare!” she said.

“What?”

She grabbed his shoulder once they got to the car.

“You’re doing that thing you do!” she said.  “Like you just imagined something bad and you’re running with it!”

“Mabel?”

“Vila is a total sweetie-pie and as soon as he offered to help you with the groceries - which he literally does _for everyone_ \- you tensed up like he was doing something mean to you!”

“‘Vila’?”

“Eugh,” said Mabel.  The trunk was now open, and she was shoveling in groceries as she spoke.  “Eduardo Villalobos.  The nicest man you’d ever meet.  He was on the 2016 US Olympic Weightlifting Team, and quit literally a week before the opening ceremony, when his parents died in a car wreck, so he could take care of his little brother and sister.”

Dipper did his best to load the car, and Mabel read his confusion.

“Geez, Dipper, it was all over the local news last year.  And we’ve run into him at least three or four times since then.  He works crazy hours.  And I’m pretty sure he knows what happened to us, too, and he’s feeling the same way you and I do - that it’s really nice to do normal stuff and not have well-meaning people remind you about the problems you’re dealing with.”

“His … his parents, really?  Mabel, God, he’s only a few years older than us…”

“Yeah,” she said.  “Drunk driver crossed the median.  And that was that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I’m really sorry.  And you’re right, I don’t know, and just because of how he looked, I just assumed he was making fun of me …augh, it’s like, sometimes, there’s this little voice in the back of my head telling me the worst possible thing about everyone I meet…”

“Hey,” she said.  The last of the groceries were now in the trunk, and she touched his shoulder.  “I get it.  You’re pretty high-strung anyway, and after all that happened, it’s not weird at all for you to read bad intentions into everyone you meet.  But it’s not _healthy_ , either.  And I know there’s no magic words I can say to fix that, but …”

He gestured to the car, and she held her tongue until Dipper eased himself into the passenger seat, and Mabel got behind the wheel, starting the engine and immediately turning down the radio.

“The psychiatrist we’re talking with,” she said.  “The one Mom and Dad are making us talk to.  Is that getting anywhere?”

“No,” he said.  “I can’t … I can’t tell her everything.  I mean, I can tell her what happened that day, sure.  That’s in the news.  There’s police records.  There’s an official version that matches what I actually saw.  I can’t tell her … I can’t tell her how it all comes back to Gravity Falls.  How that’s my benchmark for weirdness and personal trauma.  She’d think I’m insane if I told her what I really feel.”

Her chest tightened.

“And what … what do you really feel, Dipper?”

“I feel like this … this barely even _rates_ .  I mean, I’ve dealt with Bill Fucking Cipher.  He possessed my body, captured you, and turned Gravity Falls into a hellscape that we fought through.  Kevin … I mean, yeah, he tried to kill me, and almost succeeded but … honestly, he’s just a _thread_ of madness.  Just a _shade_ of evil.  And the worst he could have done to me is still a blessing compared to what Bill Cipher would do if he had the chance.”

“Y...yeah,” said Mabel.  “T...totally…”

She held back tears as she backed out the parking space and made her way to the street.  There was still such a gulf of experience between them.  Weirdmageddon had made a rift in their relationship that she kept trying to build over, only to see her bridges slowly sink.  Bill Cipher had given her heaven on earth - a land where she was practically God - and left Dipper to hell, to stumble his way through the scorched remnants of the unassuming Oregon town that bound Bill Cipher within its borders.  She knew Dipper had no choice in the matter - Bill had never offered him an equivalent of Mabeltown, and of course, Dipper would have immediately rejected it anyway.  But it wasn’t fair Mabel had spent so much of Weirdmageddon in comfort, while Dipper fought and suffered and bled to reach her, and free her.  And she knew, somehow, if Dipper had a choice, he would have changed nothing.

But she held strong.  She had a plan, a good plan, to cheer Dipper up, and celebrate a full two weeks of progress in his recovery.

When they arrived at the house, Dipper recognized Jimmy Holton’s car parked on the street.

“Mabel?”

“Surprise,” she grinned.

They parked the car, and Mabel waved Dipper off, insisting she’d unload the car while he met his friends.

Jimmy Holton and Cheng Kim, Dipper’s best friends since middle school, were at the kitchen table.  Dipper and Mabel had been gone barely an hour, so clearly they’d been waiting less than that, but already Cheng’s well-stickered netbook was open, a USB cord running to a playing-card-sized box blooming with unidentifiable circuit elements.  Dipper had only a vague understanding of his friends’ interests in electrical engineering - perhaps no more or less vague than their understanding of Dipper’s studies of the occult - but they were kindred spirits after all, recognizing nerdy obsession in each other and connecting to that sincere intensity, regardless of its direction.

“Jimmy!  Cheng! I thought you two were out of town!”

The two of them smiled, Cheng making a quick few taps on the keyboard to suggest he’d saved whatever code he’d been working on.

“Yeah, well, we lied,” said Jimmy.

“We were swept up in an intricate web of deception,” said Cheng.  “Don’t blame us though.  It’s all a product of Mabel, the Queen of Lies.  She’s a demon of some sort, we’re all sure.”

“Boys, boys,” said Mabel, grinning and waving dismissively as she stuffed groceries into the fridge.  “Enough with the flattery.”

Jimmy and Cheng stood and helped Mabel with the groceries as they talked, mostly casual comments and sterile gossip.  Mr. and Mrs. Pines came down soon, saying goodbye to the twins - they were off to a dinner party, to return around midnight, leaving Dipper alone with his friends and Mabel.  Apparently this was all arranged - Mabel wanted to cheer Dipper up by hosting a party with his friends.  The Pines parents were out the door a few minutes later.

“Anywho,” said Jimmy, “we’re told, from a reliable, but totally anonymous source,” - he stage-winked at Mabel - “ that the side-quest for our DD&MD campaign is ready to roll.”

He glanced at Mabel.  Dipper had, in fact, finished it up a while ago, and idly mentioned looking forward to running it a few weeks ago, during a physical therapy break.

“Wait, you were actually listening when I was telling you about that?” said Dipper.

“Yep!  That’s what makes it such a great surprise,” said Mabel.  “‘Cuz I like _never_ pay attention to your nerd stuff.”  She waved to the others.  “No offense.”

“Er, yeah,” said Dipper.  “Yeah, I finished it up a few days before … you know, the thing that happened.  But like I said, it’s just a side-quest; I couldn’t really work it into the larger campaign.  Heck, you could use throwaway PC if you want.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah, I’m all in,” said Cheng.

Dipper smiled.  “All right, we wanna set up in here?  Give me a minute to get my kit and we’ll-”

He turned to ask Mabel for help back to his bedroom to dig up his board and dice and rulebooks and binders, but she was already lugging them down the stairs.

“I think that’s all of it,” she said.  

And … it was.  He’d had a half-dozen idle conversations with Mabel in the past month about this game scenario, making slight adjustments and writing up new dungeons and NPCs just in case the PCs went off-script.  He’d assumed - naturally! - she was just humoring him in letting him talk, paying no real attention.  But clearly she’d recognized where he kept his board and screen and binders, and the drawer where he kept figurines and his bag of dice.

“Y-yeah,” said Dipper.  

With everything arranged on the table, Mabel stepped back, smiled, and placed her hands on her hips.

“All right boys,” she said.  “I’m hosting this little shindig.  Don’t let the lack of glitter fool you - this is a Mabel Party, Registered Trademark.  I’ll be putting together some snacks while you guys run your game, and if you want anything else I’ll run out and get it.   _Within reason._  No strippers.”

“Aw,” said Cheng.

Mabel rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen.

“So, how screwed up are things at school?” Dipper asked.  “Or did it blow over already?”

“You kidding?” said Jimmy.  “There’s like cards and flowers and stuffed animals and shit all over your locker.  People keep coming to us and asking how we’re dealing with it, which is just damn confusing, but I think most of them are looking for inside info for us to spill.”

“Tell him about you-know-who,” said Cheng.

“Oh, shit, right!” said Jimmy.  “Yeah, there was a ton of confusion, nobody really knew what happened, lots of rumors about who got hurt and how bad off they were.  The whole school went into lockdown, and about an hour later they cancelled class.  I’m waiting for the bus, right?  And I run into Mark Miller, who was there, saw the first shot before he booked it.  He knows we’re friends, so he pulls me aside, tells me what he saw.  So I’m freaking out, of course.  I figure you’re probably dead, Mabel’s probably dead.  I mean, shit, I’m a freaking mess for the rest of the day.  I’m so glad Mabel thought to call later that night, and tell me she was fine and you were alive and out of surgery.”

“I … Jesus, Jimmy.  I didn’t even think - man, that must have been awful.  For both of you guys.”

“I’m really sorry we never visited,” said Jimmy.  “I keep thinking we should have.”

“Dude, I _told you_ on the phone I wasn’t up for it.  That wasn’t like a secret test of character or anything.”

Cheng, who had by then packed away whatever robotics project he had been working on, and started setting up the game while the others talked, shook his head.

“Jimmy.  The _other_ you-know-who story,” said Cheng.  “The juicy one.”

“Ah, that one!” said Jimmy.  “Right.  Yeah, so they cancelled classes for a couple days, and when we came back, they did a school-wide announcement about what happened.  By then, pretty much everyone knew you’d been shot, but other than me and Cheng and maybe some of Mabel’s friends, nobody really knew you were in good shape.  I mean, this was like a day or two before the hospital kicked you out, right?  But half the school thinks you’re dead or dying or something, until the principal comes right out and says, thanks to everyone’s prayers and well-wishes and all that shit, you’d recovered and would hopefully return to class soon.”

“How Hallmarky,” said Dipper.

“So picture it,” said Jimmy.  “First official statement you hadn’t died, weren’t gonna die.  For a second or two, there’s just total silence.  You could hear a pin drop. And then, holy shit, Dipper, you’d never believe it.”

“What?”

“Andrea _fucking_ Babbington just bursts into tears!”

“Bullshit!’’

“Swear to god!  I mean like, straight-up ugly-crying.  Blubbering about prom, how this year would be her last chance.  Shit like that.”

“I’ve never - we’ve never even _talked_ to each other before.  Jesus, she’s like head cheerleader, isn’t she?  We’re not even in the same league.”

“I know dude!  And she’s not the only one.  Girls who would never, ever talk to dorks like us are just all over us, asking about you, who you’re dating, what kind of girls you like.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’m not sure if that’s exciting or creepy,” Dipper said.

“Well, I advise you put up with the creepy part,” said Jimmy.  “Serious, dude.  You have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here.  Prom queen?  Yours.  Any girl in school?  Yours.  Just contemplate it.  Dipper my man, you are living the dream.  Hot and cold running pussy.”

Right as he said this, Mabel emerged from the kitchen with a party tray of chips, dip, and other snacks, turning the three boys white.

“Oh … oh shit, Mabel, I’m sorry that …”  Jimmy’s face burned.  “Jesus, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“No big,” she said.  “And I’m less worried about the p-word, and more worried about the idea you’d want one to be either “cold” or “running.”

The three boys grimaced in a chorus of “Eugh.”

“Ah … yeah, maybe … not a great choice of words,” said Jimmy.

She placed the party tray on the kitchen table, away from the game board.

“I mean, if we’re going to have a gross-out competition, I’m game,” said Mabel.

“Jimmy,” said Dipper.  “Word of advice.  Do _not_ take up that challenge.  I repeat.  Never, ever challenge Mabel in a gross-out competition.   _She will destroy you_.”

“Yeah, gonna have to go with Dipper on this one,” said Jimmy.

“Oh, poop,” said Mabel.  “Anyway, I have an entree that takes a little time I wanted to get started on.  When’s a good time to aim for?  An hour?  Two?”

“Let’s say two hours,” said Dipper.

“Awesomesauce.  I’ll be chilling in my room for an hour then.  Gimme a shout if you need anything.”

“Ah, actually…” said Dipper.

“Yeah?”

“I know you’re not a fan of the game, and the quest works fine with two people.  But if you wanted to join…”

“Aw, come on, I don’t know how to play that game.  I’d just slow everything down.”

“Mabel, when Ford and I were -”  he caught himself “-in that one game we managed to rope you and Stan into … I mean, you were _awesome_ at it.  The whole point of the game is to be creative, come up with stories, act out characters, and you’re like the best person I know at that.”

“Yeah, totally,” said Jimmy.

“You bet,” said Cheng.  “Who cares if it slows stuff down?  The game’s always more fun with more people.”

“All right.  So how does this work?”

Dipper grinned.

“Okay, so Dungeons Dungeons and More Dungeons, also called DD&MD, was created in 1978 by-”

“Just gonna stop you right there,” said Cheng.

Dipper frowned.

“All right, Mabel,” said Cheng.  “So we’re playing a game.  We’re pretending to be characters - Player Characters, or PC’s - and they’re humans or magical creatures or any other sort of thing, with certain skills and powers.  Dipper is the DM - Dungeon Master - basically, the referee.  He tells us where we are and what’s going on, and he also plays the characters we interact with - non-player-characters or NPCs.  All the statistics and dice and stuff doesn’t mean anything most of the time - we’re just talking about what we’re doing, learning about the world as Dipper reveals it to us.  So that part is a hundred percent acting.  And whenever there’s a conflict - like, there’s something suspicious but it’s not clear your character would notice it, or someone attacks you and it’s not clear your character can dodge it, or you try to punch somebody but it’s not clear you’d actually hit him, or how much you’d hurt him if you did - we roll dice, Dipper does some math, and we figure out if you succeeded and what happens next.”

“Ah, that’s … that’s pretty much right, yeah,” said Dipper.

“So it’s like, dramatic improv, but with dice to make stuff random,” said Mabel.

“Statistically weighted randomness,” said Dipper, “based on the-”

Glares from Jimmy, Cheng, and Mabel quickly silenced him.

“Right, so.  Characters?” said Jimmy.  “We still have our throwaways from before, right?”

“Yeah, I have the sheets here.  Jimmy, you’re sticking with Udokul Harpsorcerer, Elfen boxer?”

“You bet.”

“And Cheng.  Waltiln Harpsorcerer, Human Rogue?”

“All over it.”

“And as for Mabel, how about Caronna Mabellion, Human Bard?”

He pulled the sheet from his binder and placed it before her.

“Dipper?”

“I made this one a while ago.  Never thought I’d use it, but I think it plays to your strengths.”

She skimmed over the page, mostly incomprehensible acronyms and numbers, but the box labeled “Biography” seemed to have actual English which she read aloud.

“Caronna Mabellion, Human female and bard.   _Or so she seems_.  She is in fact the last heir of Mableton, and seeks out the relic that will restore her to power.  Like all members of the Mableton royal line, she has a single mysterious magical ability bestowed upon her, which she can call upon at time of sorest need.”

She glanced up.

“It doesn’t say what the ability is,” she said.

“I figured you’d fill that one in yourself,” said Dipper.

“How about the ability to make kittens appear from anywhere?”

“Uh … sure.  Sure, why not?”

“Awesome, I’m in.”

Papers were shuffled, kitchen chairs scooted back and forth, chips and dip strategically arranged, and soon the breakfast nook took on a purposeful and - one might dare say -   _sinister_ air.

“My deepest apologies,” said Dipper, already adapting the forced affect he took while officiating as DM, “but this is a one-off, and I didn’t want to waste a good opening on it, so of course …”

“We all meet at an inn,” said Cheng.

“You all meet at an inn,” confirmed Dipper.

And they did.  Cheng/Waltiln, having recently purloined a map to a great fortune, found himself contemplating his next course of action, innocently sharing his table with two curious yet discreet humans, Jimmy/Udokul and Mabel/Caronna.  Somehow or another, they decided to Adventure Together ...

 

* * *

 

Waltiln, Udokl, and Carrona stood shoulder to shoulder, facing their (NPC) guide Serpenthelm, who had taken their payment to guide them to the fortress of Tinicus, abandoned them in the Swamp of No Hope, and lay in wait just outside the bridge to Tinicus’s outer gates.

Serpenthelm was powerful; half-lich, she could heal herself rapidly, absorbing magical-knuckleduster punches from Udokl and rapid-fire knife-stabs from Waltiln and instantly repair her wounds with powerful spells.  Rapid attacks from the trio of heroes kept Serpenthelm on the defense, limiting her offensive damage with dark and fire spells and the occasional lance strike, but her near-unlimited MP (magical points, the reservoir of magical ability spent on spells) would easily outlast the party.  The characters played by Cheng, Jimmy, and Mabel would soon exhaust themselves and die.

Mabel, charitably, made no comment on Dipper’s voicing of the female Serpenthelm, nasal and cackling and all, because hey, it’s not like Mabel could do a guy’s voice any better.  Nevertheless, upon Serpenthelm introducing herself as a fellow resistance fighter just outside the inn where they met (as in, Dipper doing a nasal falsetto and Mabel pretending he was a girl), Mabel couldn’t help but ask if “Serpenthelm” was a nickname, and perhaps her legal name was Badguy Betrayface.  This, of course, put Jimmy and Cheng into hysterics; Dipper’s lack of creativity in names was a running joke during their DD&MD sessions.  But they all played along, letting themselves be betrayed by an obvious betrayer, because that was the story.

But now they were on the ropes.

“Caronna,” said Udokul/Jimmy.  “If we keep fighting like this, we’re going to run out of health long before Serpenthelm.  Can you make up a distraction, buy us some time to fall back and come up with a better plan?”

“Maybe,” said Caronna/Mabel.  “Dipper, I can ask you questions, right?”

“Game rules and things, sure,” said Dipper.  

“I can make kittens appear from anywhere, right?”  said Mabel.

“Well, from thin air, really,” said Dipper.

“What if I wanted to make kittens appear from inside something?  Or _someone_?”

“Jesus,” said all three of them.

“What?” said Mabel.  “It’s my _thing_.”

Dipper laughed.  “All right.  If you’re going to displace mass, I’ll allow it, but the MP multiplier is 5.”

“Two,” said Mabel.  She paused, glanced at Cheng and Jimmy.

“You want the smallest number you can get,” said Cheng.

“ _Two_ ,” said Mabel, nodding.

“Five is reasonable,” said Dipper.

“Two,” said Mabel and Cheng.

“Four,” said Dipper.

“Three,” said Mabel and Cheng and Jimmy.

“ _Three_ , fine, Jesus,” said Dipper.

Mabel, Cheng, and Jimmy exchanged high-fives.

“Okay, triple-cost MP,” said Dipper.  “Kittens from anywhere.  You can’t cast anything at all for at least an hour or two.  And if you roll the spell and fail, that’s gone and you get nothing.  Still good?”

Mabel nodded and rolled the die..

“Three rather traumatized cats burst from Serpenthelm’s chest,” said Dipper.  “She is … well, she’s rather horrifyingly dead.”

“Damn, Mabel,” said Jimmy.  

Mabel grinned.

“What do you expect?  She owed me money.”

The laughter ran too long at that; they took a break.

 

* * *

 

 

Chats about game mechanics quickly bored Mabel; when made clear they weren’t discussing anything meaningful to this specific game, she went off to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Some twenty minutes later, she regained the boy’s attention.  It was just her nature.

Dipper started at the tinny tones of “Call Me Maybe” erupting from a cellphone.

“Mabel, you _promised_ -” said Dipper.

“It’s not karaoke!” said Mabel.  “I swore no karaoke, and I meant it!  The karaoke machine is in the hall closet and it’s gonna stay there.”

“C’mon,” said Cheng.  “Let the girl sing!”

“Yeah, seriously, D!” said Jimmy.  “She’s a bard!  You literally _made her_ a bard!”

“Augh!” said Dipper.

“So,” said Mabel, “that’s two votes for, one against.  Seems pretty clear on my end.”

“A mandate, really,” said Cheng.

“Ahem,” said Mabel.

The kitchen was only partly visible from the breakfast nook, enough for the three to notice Mabel’s work but be unclear on what she was working toward the past half-hour or so.  But she waved at the countertop, where they could recognize tortilla chips decorated with beans, cheese, sour cream, quacamole, chives, and a particular salsa which they all knew so very well.

“Mabel Salsa!” said Jimmy and Cheng.

Mabel waved, held up her index finger, and with her audience silent, poked the phone again, letting the extended intro of “Call Me Maybe” play as she strutted the plate of nachos to a bare spot on the kitchen table, stepping back, and then shooting out an arm with open fingers.

_“Hey!_

_I made na-chos!_

_They’re on the ta-ble!_

_It’s made of lumber!_

_So call me Mabel!”_

Long-suffering groans from Dipper; sincere applause from Jimmy and Cheng as Mabel bowed.

“Haven’t had these in like months!” said Jimmy.  “You gotta tell us your secret!”

Mabel’s nachos were, by themselves, nothing to write home about, but her salsa … well, that was another thing entirely.  Dipper should have realized Mabel Salsa was in the works when she picked up a mango at the grocery store.  But of course, she didn’t purchase the secret ingredient, long since banned in California…

“I’m going to guess,” said Dipper, “that the secret is unsafe quantities of Smile-Dip, which you’ve stored somewhere in the house.”

“Pshaw,” said Mabel.  “Shows what _you_ know.  The FDA has been very clear on the subject.  There is _no such thing_ as a safe quantity of Smile Dip.”

“That doesn’t really ...” said Dipper, but he trailed off, his friends already consuming Mabel’s offering.

“Fine,” said Dipper.  Under Mabel’s watchful eye, he took a chip, spiraling it in the air to relieve it of a string of cheese, dipped it in a mound of guacamole, then sour cream, then Mabel-salsa, and ate it.  And … it was … it was _So. Fucking. Good._  The offensively-sweet Smile Dip was offset by cumin and coriander and red pepper and shades of habenero, and evened out by the sweet and texture of mango and probably a dozen more flavors Dipper couldn’t even identify.

The game remained on hold as the four of them ate every last bit of Mabel’s most excellent nachos.

 

* * *

 

They’d crossed the bridge, solved the Nine Riddles of Tenaclese (negotiated down to a mere four, again by Mabel, backed by her compatriots) and came to the final battle.

The final blow was made; the arch-villain Tinicus was defeated, fleeing his fortress, withdrawing the power that animated his stone guardians, rendering all enemies on the field into pebbles and dust.  But the treasure map led no further.  No gold to be found.

“Well, maybe the real treasure was the friends we made on the way,” said Mabel.

“Augh,” groaned Jimmy and Cheng.

“Anyway,” said Mabel.  “I attack Jimmy.  One strike on the back of the head with my guitar.”

“What the fuck?” said Jimmy.

“Mabel, seriously?” said Cheng.

“He’s distracted by my professed friendship right?” said Mabel.

“I guess he would be,” said Dipper.  “All right.  Roll for it. And … Well, shit.  That’s a crit.  Sorry Jimmy, you’re KO’ed.”

“I rifle through his pockets,” said Mabel

“All right, lemme list his items for you…”

“Screw the items!  What’s the money?”

“Er, well, he’s carrying Rune Silver,” said Dipper. “A total of RS485 by my account.”

“Cheng, come on man,” said Udokul/Jimmy.

“I’m gonna see where this goes,” said Waltiln/Cheng

“Cheng!” said Jimmy.

“I draw my weapon and defend,” said Cheng.

“Good choice,” said Mabel/Caronna.  “I lay out Jimmy’s inventory and tell Waltiln he can have half.”

“ _Half_?” said Jimmy.  “Seriously Mabel, you’d get a third anyway!  Why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing this because third is less than half,” said Mabel.  “Also, this is more fun.”

“All right,” said Dipper.  “You two split the money and Udokul wakes up later.  Sorry, Jimmy.”

“Augh,” said Jimmy.  

“I’ll come up with a really good story about Udokul not getting his ass kicked by a girl, right?” said Cheng.

“Surely,” said Dipper.  “And Mabel only took the money, not his items, so he should probably count himself lucky.”

“Fair enough,” said Cheng.  “Anything else?”

“Nope,” said Dipper.  “End of game.  Good job everyone.”

Jimmy sighed and gave a semi-sarcastic applause, which Cheng and Mabel joined in on, and a few moments later, Dipper nodded.

“So, good game?” said Dipper.

“The best,” said Jimmy.  “You always come up with the weirdest ways to kick the shit out of my character.”

“I didn’t screw it up, did I?” asked Mabel?

Cheng shook his head.  “Mabel, come on.  You were freaking amazing.”

“If you sit around and do whatever the DM wants you to do, it’s so boring,” said Jimmy.  “You did great.  You got into Dipper’s head way better than we could.  Made him actually _work_ for a change.”  Jimmy leveled an accusatory glare at Dipper, who waved it off.

“You did awesome, Mabel,” said Dipper.  “Seriously, this was lots of fun.”

Mabel cleaned off the table, allowing the boys to chat as they tallied up whatever math was involved in this game, letting them talk and slowly build up their good-byes.  Having sit so long in an unpadded wooden chair, Dipper was slow on his feet, his right arm especially weak from scribbling notes behind the cardboard shield separating him from the players, and rolling dice behind the same shield.  But Dipper was happy, so obviously happy, thanking his friends for coming, telling them he’d see them in school soon.

Mabel was cleaning dishes in the kitchen when she heard the sound.  The horrible sound.  Flesh on tile.  Her brother falling.

Dipper had been on the front porch, waving goodbye to his friends as they drove off in Jimmy’s car, and had closed the door, and slipped on the slick tile of the foyer.

“Dipper!” she screeched.  Everything had gone so well, she thought.  And this … god, what was wrong with her? She should have been there!  Should have -

“Mabel, come on!” he said.  Dipper got to his feet just as she reached him.  “Mom just went too crazy with the floor wax or whatever she used here.  I just bumped my elbow a bit.  I’m fine, okay?  Don’t freak out.”

“Dipper…”

“Mabel, seriously, look at me.  You … holy crap, you were so amazing tonight.  I can’t even remember the last time I had so much fun.”

She stepped toward him, wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I’m sorry if this is weird.  But I need … I really need to do this.”

“It’s okay,” he said.  “Hug me as much as you want.”

“You … you’ll regret saying that,” said Mabel.  “I bet I want to hug you way … way more than you’re okay with.”

Dipper smiled, and pulled her close.

“You know I’m always down for an awkward sibling hug.”

 

* * *

 

She took Dipper’s arm and led him to the living room, despite his protests that he was fine, and they sat on the couch together, idly flipping through channels.  Their parents would be home in an hour or so, and they should probably be getting ready for bed soon.

It was innocent, so clearly and obviously innocent, for a brother and sister, twins, to sit on a couch, and watch TV, and for one of them to lean into the other, very casually.  It wasn’t weird at all for Dipper to press his nose to the side of her head and sniff.

“Peaches,” he said.

“Dipper?”

“Peaches and vanilla.  That was the last thought I had.  I think.”

“You mean my hair treatment?  Wait, _the last thought you had_?”

Something coiled up in him.  Anxious and … warm, actually.  Not panic, not exactly.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh god, I’m sorry!  Oh, god, Dipper, I didn’t - ah, I’m so _stupid_ , this is the same hair treatment I used that day … ah, no, I’m sorry, I’ll throw it out, I’ll throw it out right now, wait here, I’ll show you!”

He grabbed her wrist, kept her against him.

“N-no,” he said.  “I don’t … I’m not upset … Mabel, I ….”

Ugh, this is humiliating.  He was seriously crying now, although quiet-crying, so maybe it looked manly or something.  He slipped his hands around her, pulled her close to his shoulder, and buried his face in her hair.

“D-dipper … you don’t … don’t do this to yourself …”

“Mabel,” he whispered.  “I’m not upset.  I’m happy.  I’m so happy, Mabel.  The whole thing was a nightmare except for that one moment.  And I just remembered it.  You were with me and everything was so peaceful.  So perfect.  That’s … that’s what it felt like.”

“Dipper, you’re scaring me.”

He pulled back, wiped his eyes.

“Sorry, I … ah, I’m making it sound more serious than it was …”

“Were you really … Dipper, did you really start going toward the light there?  Choirs and angels and crap?  Like, an actual near-death experience?”

Her breathing quickened with the realization.  Because he really was that close.  

“Ah, nothing quite so formal.  Just … hallucinations I guess.”

“Oh,” she said.

He chuckled.

“What?”

“I thought you were a bowl of peaches,” he said.  “Like, that was your true form.  I wanted to lick you.”

“Pfsh, wha?”

He shrugged.

“So weird,” she said.  She wiped her face, steadied her breathing.

“Sorry, Mabel.  I didn’t mean to freak you out.  I just … just sort of organizing my memories, I guess.  Don’t get rid of things because you’re worried about me having flashbacks or anything.  I mean, I might, but … I kinda want to just work through them as they come.”

She nodded.

“Augh,” he said, wiping his face.  “Oh, I can see this is going to be a fun couple months ahead of me.”

“It’s all right,” she said, patting his back.  “We’ll get through it together.”

He nodded.

The turned back to the TV; the commercial break had just ended.  And when another began:

“Dipper?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you mean, you wanted to lick me?”

His face burned.  Saying it like _that_ … oh, geez.

“Mabel, not - oh _god_ , not like _that_.”

“Not like what?”

_Shit._

She grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“Not … I didn’t mean … like you’d normally want to lick a girl.”

_Shit shit shit._

“ _Oh_?  And how would you normally lick a girl?”

“Ah, geez, are you really…?”

“Hmm?”

“I … I kinda wanted to lick your cheek right then, okay?  I dunno, I guess when your brain is all scrambled up that seems like a good idea.”

“And you’re suuuure,” she said.  “That’s the only place-”

“ _Yes_!”

She giggled.

“All right.”

She leaned close.

“..what?” he said.

She grinned, pointed a finger at her cheek.

“N-no … no way …”

“C’mon, you can’t have a vision like that and not see it through!  It’s your _destiny_ ,” she giggled.

“I’ll show you destiny,” he said, and grabbed her shoulders and pinned her to the couch.

She squealed and squirmed, but there was no way out; Dipper had already licked her left cheek with an exaggerated “Lauhm!” sound, and moved to do the same thing on the right.

“Augh!” she said.  “Yer nommin’ me!  Send help, I’m gettin’ nommed!”

“Nom nom nom,” said Dipper, saying this as he dragged his lips across her cheeks, and he realized with a start this probably looked a heck of a lot like kissing except ....

It was an accident, he knew, when his goofy, over-dramatic, zombie-like, wet smacking kisses caused his lips to pass over hers, run against hers.  It was an accident that she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, preventing him from continuing past her lips, forcing him to keep _his_ mouth right over _her_ mouth.

 

* * *

 

Dipper made a sound - a low moan of some sort, that made her belly tremble, made her rub her thighs together, and suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, her hands were in his hair, and they were kissing, _tongue_ -kissing, and it was the sort of kiss Mabel had never ever had before, all passion and heat, and she wasn’t even processing what was happening, that it was Dipper doing this, because it just felt so good, so perfect, so incredible, and she freed one hand to slide down his neck, splay over his lower back and _push_ because she needed him, all of him, all of his weight, because if he didn’t pin her down she’d just float away.

He drew back, chest heaving ( _aw geez he’s still not at a hundred percent this probably isn’t good for him_ ) and in the two or three seconds he stared at her, trying to figure out if she was going to deck him or not, she smiled.

“Oh my god,” he gasped.  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Mabel.”

“Fer what?”

Pure confusion on his face now.

“I mean … after everything that happened … Mabel, god … I’m just … I mean … it’s been an emotional couple weeks, right?  I’m sorry, you’ve been taking such good care of me, and I’m just fucking it all up here …”

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair.

“I mean … holy shit.  Holy shit, I can’t believe I … Mabel, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I have no idea … no idea what came over me.”

“Seems like the sort of thing we should work through,” Mabel ventured.

“Y-yeah, I guess … if you want to talk it out …”

“It would be unhealthy not to,” she said.

He nodded.

She took his hand, kissed it, and - grinning mischievously - placed it on her chest, squeezing lightly.

“Zo tell me, Dipper,” she said, in her best Sigmund Freud accent, (which was _terrible_ ), “how doez zis make you feel?”

“Like …”  he licked his lips.  “Uh … is ‘confused boner’ an emotion?”

She beamed.

“Zuccess!  Ve haff zee progress!”

“Mabel, I … you don’t have to … god, don’t do this for my sake …”

She kissed his forehead.

“Ain’t all about you,” she said.  “I might have a bit of a Florence Nightingale thing goin’ on here.”

“Oh,” he said.  “That … that sounds serious then.”

“Super-serious,” she said.  

He pulled his hand away

“Dipper?”

“Jesus, we can’t … I mean, we can’t do this.  Jesus, if anyone saw what we just did …”

“I … I didn’t mind,” she said.  “I actually kinda liked it.”

“Mabel?”

“And I don’t see you running upstairs for mouthwash, so maybe you didn’t think it was too bad either.”

“Ah … yeah, I mean … yeah.  It was … it was really nice.”

Dipper scooted a few inches away, fidgeting on the couch cushion.

“Hey,” said Mabel.  “That girl you guys were talking about earlier tonight.  Andrea Babbington?”

“What about her?”

“I’ve never heard you talk about her before.  Do you like her?  Is she, like, your type?”

“Not really,” he said.  “I mean, she’s pretty, and seems like a nice girl, but I don’t really have anything in common.”

“It sounds like she’ll go to prom with you if you ask,” said Mabel.  

“Yeah, I’m not really … I’m not really prom material, Mabel.”

“Bullcrap.  You’re total prom material.  If you weren’t my brother, I’d ask you in a heartbeat.”

“Yeah, well, coming from my own sister, I’m not sure how far that seal of approval is going to get me.”

“Well, why don’t you pick a girl you like, and I’ll chat her up for you?  I’ll tell them how good a kisser you are and everything.”

“Oh my _god!_ ” said Dipper, burying his face in his hands.

“I’m kidding!  Geez, Dipper.”

Their attentions turned back to the TV, for a few minutes, and then, on the next commercial break:

“Dipper, do you … is it okay if I ask about some of the other stuff that happened?  Before we got to the hospital?”

“Ah, yeah, sure.”  
  
“I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, I totally understand …”

“No big deal.  I’m not sure how much I remember though - I was getting pretty fuzzy by then.”

“Yeah, I mean, obviously, you were pretty out of it.  But still … in the ambulance … did you hear what I said to you?”

“No, I don’t think … no, I don’t remember the ambulance at all.”

“I kinda … I mean, it’s the sort of thing you can really only say to someone in the moment, but …”

“But?”

“I … sort of want to tell you again.”

Her breath hitched.

“I … I want to tell you again and again.  Every day I want to tell you.  So you always know …”

“Mabel, come on, it’s all right.”

He pulled her close, and she cried into his shoulder.

“Ah, no, that’s your bad shoulder, I’m sorry …”

“It’s fine,” he said.  “I’m all healed up now; you know that.”

“Augh,” she said.  “God, I’m such a mess.”

“It’s all right.”

She breathed deeply, exhaled.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too, Mabes.”

“No, I mean … I _love_ you.  I love you so much, Dipper.  I can’t hold it in anymore.  And I know it’s all weird and gross but I can’t help it.  And it’s the scariest thing in the world, telling you I love you … I want you … _that way_.  Because I know there’s something wrong with me, to think of something like that, and say something like that.  Because it changes everything, to let you know how I feel.  And the only way I can say it … is to hold out hope that it’s not just me.  Because if you … if you could kiss me like you just did, then maybe ...  maybe there’s some chance, some tiny chance, you might love me _that way_ too…

He leaned close, and they were face-to-face, forehead-to-forehead, nose-to-nose.  His brown eyes shimmered as he stared into her own.  And he took her shoulders in his hands, and kissed her on the lips.  Light kisses, almost chaste, really, but with a brimming intensity behind them, an intensity proven to her mere moments ago. And he spoke to her, punctuating each word with a kiss, and Mabel’s stomach did flip-flops as she melted in his hands.

“I.  Love.  You.  Too.”

And with one last kiss:

“ _That way_.”

The rumble of the garage door opening announced their parents’ return, and Dipper went upstairs to prepare for bed as Mabel curled up on the couch and pressed fingers to her lips, trying to hold the warmth of his kiss, all while her heart jumped up and down in her chest.

She had thought she’d fallen in love before, with other boys.  But none of them had ever made them feel like this.  She had pined, she had crushed, she had been infatuated and she had fallen in like.

But Dipper … Dipper was the first and only person she had ever fallen in love with, and if he loved her too … if he wanted her just as badly as she wanted him … what did that mean?  

And perhaps, the most important question of all:

_What was she going to do about it?_

 


	6. Chapter 6

It took all of Mabel’s effort to hide the blush on her cheeks when her parents arrived home, and if she succeeded, it was only because it was past dinner, and Mom and Dad were still in their lovey-dovey married-people post-date fog. (Blech.)  Had it been any other night, and she’d been stuck having dinner with her parents and the boy who was the best kisser in the whole wide world, and who also happened to be her twin brother, she would have surely broken down into a hyperventilating, blathering mess.

She was brushing her teeth when Dipper walked by the open bathroom door, carrying a bottle of water from the fridge downstairs on the way to his bedroom.  He barely glanced at her, but Dipper’s dopey half-smile and warm eyes was enough to set her heart aflutter all over again.  She sucked in a breath, almost choking on foamy toothpaste, and was glad he had passed her by the time she spat in the sink.  She caught herself in the vanity mirror - cheeks burning red, eyes wide, sparkly toothpaste dribbling from her chin - before splashing water on her face.

_Oh my gosh oh my gosh I like him and he likes me oh geez oh crap how do I handle this what do I do this is bad this is really bad so why does it feel so good?_

She steadied her heartbeat before tip-toeing to her own room, and the strangest thoughts came to her.  She should sneak into Dipper’s room.  No, she should go to her room, and find to her great surprise Dipper’s already there, splayed out, a rose between his teeth.  No, she should go to her room, and leave her door open just a crack, and he’ll know to check later and sneak in.  No, they should both go to their own rooms, both doors closed.  Wait an hour or two.  Then, a signal.  A series of taps on the wall shared by their bedrooms.  If she taps out _shave and a haircut_ and he responds with _two bits_ that means she should sneak out of her room and into his.  Or the other way around?  How does the song go?   _Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.  Twice on the pipe if the answer is ‘no.’_  So yeah, whoever sends the signal first is the person the other one should go to.  What pipe though?  Like a radiator?  The house doesn’t have radiators.  Maybe she should just wait a bit and go straight into Dipper’s room and take off all her clothes and ...

No, no, she couldn’t do that.  Oh my god no.

But when she reached for her clock radio, to play some soft music while she changed and brushed her hair, she hesitated, and left it silent.  Just to make sure she’d hear his signal, if he made one, even though she had no idea how she might respond to it.  And although she knew Dipper was not going to sneak into her room tonight, and brush her cheek, and wait for her to pull the sheets aside and lay with her for a few hours, she nonetheless left her bedroom door unlocked when she crawled into bed.  And, just in case, in a Dipper-esque level of unnecessary preparation, she eschewed pajama bottoms and running shorts, comfy underwear and holey nightshirts - her typical range of sleepwear, notable for being the sort of attire appropriate for lounging around the house - in favor of the particularly scandalous combination of a sheer white tank-top and a pair of frilly pink underwear she’d been saving for a particularly hot date.

Just in case.

 

* * *

 

She was awake when she heard her parents shuffling around in the morning.  The clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the hiss and grumble of the coffeemaker, the scent of toast and eggs.  Her eyes were bleary, and she had to blink a few times before the clock at her bedside resolved into the numbers 6:51.  Her bedroom was red-tinged with the sunrise.  Somewhere, a lawnmower growled to life.

She was awake, but didn’t recall actually waking up.  Did she sleep?  She recalled seeing the clock read 11:45, and 12:03, and 12:51, and 1:28, and probably a few 2-somethings and 3-somethings in there as well.  While it’s possible she fell asleep sometime after 3am, she thought it more likely she’d simply managed to close her eyes and not look at the clock for a few hours.  

She’d kicked off the sheets in her sleep, and blushed in embarrassment at the realization she was wearing bona-fide _third date_ panties and not much else, and immediately grabbed the sheets to cover herself.  Stupid, stupid.  At any moment, Dad could have knocked on her door, Mabel could have said “come in” on reflex, and … augh, she didn’t even want to think about it.

She threw on a pair of gym shorts, and a heavy t-shirt as well, and gripped the edge of her dresser.  

The light knock at the door, and her Dad’s soft whisper of “Mabel, honey,” brought her back to reality, and she joined him for breakfast.  

The cost of staying home with Dipper was to be awake and alert before their parents left for work at around 7am.  Dipper still got to sleep as late as he wanted, although that really wasn’t fair anymore, given he was more or less fully recovered and really didn’t benefit from the extra rest.  But on this morning, as she poked at her scrambled eggs with a fork, Mabel was particularly happy Dipper would not be stumbling out of his room for another two hours or so, long after their parents had left.  She needed some time to process what happened last night.

 

* * *

 

 

Seriously, what the heckity heck happened last night?

Mabel rubbed her forehead.  Since her parents left, she’d had breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, took a shower, dressed for the day, had a second Raspberry Zinger tea, and then a third, and it wasn’t even 10am.  She was all-too-aware she was in the last hour or so of Dipper’s Teenage Boy Wakeup Procedure, what with his alarm clock blaring every 10 minutes, followed by unnecessarily loud yawning, some concerning moans, complaints to an unseen party about it being too early, the sun being too bright, and such, and then a solid eight minutes of loud snoring.  Over and over again.  At 9:50, Dipper apparently reached his limit, appeared to lose an argument with his alarm clock, made a series of moans that she assumed were evidence of his finally abandoning sleep, and ventured out of his bedroom. She did not see, but heard, his zombie-like shuffle to the bathroom the twins shared.  Her nose wrinkled as the pungent aroma of Teenage Boy Bedroom wafted down the hall.  Her tea soured in her mouth, the delicate fruity notes offset by gym socks and farts and ten types of cologne.

_Ugh.  I forgot how gross he was in the mornings.  Thank God, that makes things easier.  Earth to Mabel: Dipper’s your brother, your stinky brother who keeps leaving the toilet seat up, to the point you’re pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose.  That whole make-out session last night?  Yeah, here’s the other side of it.  I mean, not gonna lie, he lit me up like it was Fourth of July.  But in the morning, you still gotta rake the yard for all the burned-out bits of roman candles and sparklers and spinners and bottle rockets.  You gotta see for yourself that all those beautiful lights and colors were just bits of plastic and cardboard.  No matter how good the fireworks are, you still gotta deal with the mess after._

She stood, stretched, and readied herself for today’s activities.  She and Dipper would do schoolwork for the next two hours, then lunch, then more schoolwork, then PT.  Same shoot, different day.  She set her tea aside and walked the hallway to her bedroom to grab her schoolwork so she could lay it out on the kitchen table as they normally did.  And if Dipper felt like not talking about what happened last night just as much as she felt like not talking about last night, well, that’ll work just great, then.

“Mabel.”

It was so quiet, the mention of her name.  A bare whisper, maybe even her imagination.

It was enough for her to grip the doorframe of the bathroom and press hear ear to the door.

“G-god…  F-fah … Mabel, I...”

She sucked in a breath. Dipper in the bathroom.  Saying her name.

_He’s not.  He can’t.  No way._

The sound from behind the door paused, and she froze, fearing for a moment he heard her, but then she could hear his breathing again, but softer, whispering something so quiet she couldn’t hear.  As if he had just realized he was being too loud.

_Holy crap Mabel, what are you doing?  You can’t just stand here and listen!  Keep walking!  Pretend you never heard anything!  Or, hell, bang on the door and yell at him for being such a pervert!_

But of course she couldn’t do the second option, having so recently been guilty of the exact same crime.  So of course she was just going to go to her bedroom, bring her schoolwork to the kitchen, and start her Pre-Calculus homework and forget that she heard anything.

By the time she got back to the kitchen with her schoolwork, Dipper was already burning through his assignments, and other than a few comments about their math teacher’s penchant for bad puns (and the twins’ attempt to predict which particular ones would show up for this particular lesson, had they been present in class) they were mostly silent.

All the while, in moments where Dipper seemed too engrossed on a problem to notice, she found herself staring at him, studying his expression, falling in love with the way he is able to focus so intently, for so long, on boring things like this, and coming to the grudging conclusion that, for a teenage boy, he didn’t really smell all that bad.

 

* * *

 

Dipper turned off the shower and reached for a towel.  His hand was still tingling a fair bit, and his handwriting looked like it was done in an earthquake, but all in all he felt in fairly good shape, and ready to get back to school.  The past two weeks had been … surprisingly fun, really.  What more can he say about Mabel than the fact she turned his two-week convalescence into a two-week vacation?  

The stuff they’d done last night … The Make-Outening, as he called it in his mind … apparently became a thing neither he nor Mabel would admit happened, which was probably for the best.  For much of the morning, she’d been standoffish, and he naturally assumed she was upset with him, for not shutting all that stuff down.  But maybe she was just as embarrassed as he was.  And she seemed to be acting perfectly normal as they did their schoolwork, and had lunch, and helped him on his PT exercises.  Dipper knew Mabel well enough; if she was actually angry at him there’s no way she’d have hidden it.

His face flushed, and he could feel hot, liquid _cringe_ spill down his back as he recalled the worst part of it - not the actual making-out, but what he said after.  Because … making out with your own sister … I mean, you could pin that on the emotional roller-coaster of the past few weeks.  They’ve been unusually close, emotionally and physically, the past few days, and obviously that was going to have some knock-on effects.

But he knew that wasn’t true at all.  When the intensity of their make-out had cooled, it was a calm, collected, rational Dipper that took Mabel’s face in his hands and kissed her, and told her he loved her, and _not_ like a brother.  That wasn’t misaimed affection.  That was a _signed confession_ , an _affidavit_ of incestuous desire.  He was under oath.  He signed his name on the dotted line.  And now, a full day later, he felt no different.  He could not, in good conscience, recant.  He meant every word then, and he still meant it now.

He rubbed his eyebrows with his finger and thumb.  He could deal with this.  This was deal-able.  Like the therapist said, trauma does weird things to people, changes how they view others.  Some of the change is temporary, and it’s best to wait things out to see before making serious life decisions.  He suspected that entering a romantic relationship with a sibling was about as serious a life decision as one could make, and so, he’d be best off letting that one sit for a while.  

And as for what Mabel thought of all this … God, he couldn’t even imagine.  She was into it, for a bit, but clearly that was going to pass quickly.  Mabel was _also_ traumatized, her judgment suspect every much as his own.  And even if they were the same age (minutes don’t count!) he still felt protective of Mabel.  He’d let Mabel date whoever she liked, and never played the romantically protective brother for her, never vetted her boyfriends.  But this was different.  That Dipper kid, he was no good, he was a creeper.  He thought his own twin sister smelled good, not just good, but _good_ , like, boner-good.  Wanted to touch her.  Had _feelings_ when doing the laundry, folded Mabel’s bras and panties a bit _too_ reverently, his movements mechanical and his eyes straight ahead, lest he think of what she looked like when wearing those undergarments and nothing else.  Placed that laundry on her bed super-casual, always taking extra effort to wrinkle something, to make clear he wasn’t paying attention to her unmentionables.  Yeah, Dipper was well within his rights to denounce any relationship with a guy like that.

But he was dealing with it.  He was going cold-turkey on Mabel. No more touching, no more casual intimacy. Not permanently, of course.  Just for a while.  Just until he shook this monkey off his back.  A few more days and he’d be clean, he was sure of it.

_… yeah, I’m just going to keep telling myself that._

Dipper glanced at himself in the mirror, at the two puckered scars, and the two-inch lines beside them where the surgeon made his incisions.  They were still pretty sore, and a bit itchy at times, but it’s been ten days since they took out the stitches and they seemed to be healing well.

_Do I have street cred now?  Does this count?_

He sighed, rolled his eyes at himself.

He’d be back in school Monday - he and Mabel both would be - and his friends had already warned him what they would be walking into.  They school had already done a candlelight vigil, an aborted fundraiser (their parents were fine with money, thanks) and apparently they were going to some some sort of commendation for him and Mabel at next week’s pep rally.  Something about bravery or … ah, god, who cares?  He bet there was a theme, maybe even a banner.  “Thanks for surviving a gunshot, so your parents don’t destroy the school district with a wrongful death suit?”  Yeah, just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?

Oh yeah, lawyers.  Their parents met with some, and kept the lawsuit option open, but apparently Dipper would’ve needed to _die_ to get them the big bucks.  Maybe if they had crappier health insurance, it’d be worth a try, but all indications from his parents are that they weren’t going that direction.

Anyway.   Dipper got it.  Twins were just naturally interesting to other people.  Twins plus school shooting?  That’s national news.  But also, _briefly_ national news, what with nobody actually dying.  But the local paper has had blurbs and opinion pieces every couple days.  It was obvious he and Mabel were going to get an unpleasant amount of attention for a little while.

Eugh.  This is not the sort of thing he wanted to be famous for.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, put on deodorant and fixed up his hair, and made his way back to his room.  He could hear Mabel moving around downstairs, the buzz of the microwave and the first kernels of popcorn popping.  Yet another movie night.  You’d think he’d get tired of this same routine, but he didn’t.  Mabel wasn’t the sort of person you could ever get bored of.

He noticed his phone blinking as he dressed, and after throwing on a sweatshirt, picked it up.  A text message from a number he didn’t recognize.  Not even his own area code.  With a video link, even.  Obvious spam.  Probably something that would infect his phone with some horrible computer virus if he opened it.  He clicked the delete button, which brought up the confirmation screen:

_ >Delete Video: Youtube link EGGBERT HIGH SCHOOL SHOOTING CELLPHONE VIDEO EXCLUSIVE VIDEO GORE BANNED WATCH PEOPLE DIE< _

His chest heaved.

_No.  No fucking way.  It’s a prank.  It’s a stupid prank.  And even if it was real, why would I … why would I ever want to watch something like that?_

His thumb hovered over the “Delete” button.

_ >Cancel delete< _

_ >Play video< _

The Youtube page popped up, and the video began to play. The image flipping around, a carpet, the underside of a table, ceiling tiles, as the person recording fumbled the phone.

 _“Kevin, come on man, you don’t need to do this,”_ said the Dipper in the video

His hand ( _oh yeah real smart Dipper open the utterly traumatizing video with your still-twitchy right hand_ ) spasmed, causing the phone to fall to the floor.  

Kevin’s voice: _“I love you, Mabel.”_

He was hyperventilating.   _Stupid stupid stupid_.  He lunged for the phone, but somehow knocked it along the floor of his bedroom, sending it skittering under his dresser.  He fell to his knees, reached under the furniture, fingers failing to make contact with the phone. There was still time though.  He could move the dresser, grab the phone, rip out the battery.  If he did that fast enough …

_Bang!_

He clutched his chest, pulled his knees up, instinctively assuming a fetal position, eyes wide in shock.

Kevin’s voice again: _“I love you so much.”_

_Oh god, here it comes, here comes the other one._

BANG!  
ANG!  
NG!  
G!  
!

Dipper moaned, louder than Video Dipper, but otherwise it was almost the same sound.  Tears streamed from his face, and his breathing was wet and hacking with snot and saliva and pain.

 _“It’s all right, Mabel,”_ said Kevin.   _“It’s almost done.  Just step away and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”_

He had been falling backwards, into a dark hole, the library ceiling miles and miles above him, the scent of gunpowder, until Mabel’s voice cut through the inky blackness.  He didn’t remember any of this part - maybe he was already unconscious by then, when it happened?  The pain in Mabel’s voice.  Pleading for his life.  And then …  and then …

She … she’s _talking him out of it_.

The tension in his chest suddenly released.  He could pull in a full breath.  And he was listening.  He was listening to this exchange between Mabel and the boy who meant to kill him.

He ached at the sound of her voice breaking, barely able to get the words out.  And still … she was _incredible_.  Thinking on her feet.  Getting on the shooter’s side, and convincing him to leave.  Mabel somehow coming up with exactly the right words to save his life.

The audio stopped.

“Hhhholy shit,” he gasped.  

_Oh man yeah definitely gonna delete that link maybe report it oh wow that’s not something people need to hear._

He wobbled, slowly getting onto his feet.  Rubbing his eyes.

_All right so that was … well, let’s not dance around it, that was fucking traumatizing.  And I’d be all curled up in my Get Better Sweater (I mean, I wouldn’t really, I’d never deliberately stretch out one of her sweaters) except for the fact that … you know, I can’t believe I never actually asked about what happened after I was shot.  I was in and out there, and I just assumed Kevin freaked out and left me for dead.  Nobody told me.  Mabel never told me._

He reached under the dresser, got his phone between his fingers, and pulled it to his chest, quickly powering down the device.

 _God, this whole time … this_ whole time _I thought I took a bullet for her … well, two bullets, but sacrifice-wise you get diminishing returns after the first one … but I was never actually saving her at all.  He wasn’t going to shoot_ her _, just_ me _.  And getting in front of Mabel like that … ah, god, I was putting her in_ more _danger, not_ less _.  And on top of that, Mabel … god, how could she even … I mean, that little shit had a gun to my head and she still played him like a goddamn fiddle._

He sucked in a long breath, blew it out, shook his hands - his right hand finally relaxing.

_All right Dipper.  You’re good.  A little rattled, yeah, but nothing an Official Mabel Movie Night can’t fix.  Thank god that trolling little rando only sent that to me, and not to …_

_… oh shit._

“Mabel?” he called out.

No response.  What was that smell?  Burnt popcorn?

“Mabel!”

He sprinted down the hall, down the stairs, straight to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

She was on the living room carpet, just at the edge of the kitchen, knees drawn up to her chest, eyes blank.  Her pig-patterned cellphone case was near her feet, the sound a little tinny with the speaker right against the floor.

_“Kevin … you did so good, Kevin … just listen to me, though.  I mean … j-just … look at h-h-him … No … no way he’ll ever tell me who to date after this, r-right…”_

He grabbed the phone, clicked off the video, closed out the video app.

_If I ever find the motherfucking shiteating douchebag who sent this I will fucking destroy him I swear to fucking god._

“Mabel,” he said.  “Look at me, it’s over.  It’s some asshole fucking with us.  It’s fine, okay?”

“I can’t believe…” she whispered.  “I can’t believe … I said something like that … Dipper … that’s the most horrible … that’s the most horrible thing anyone has ever said …”

He crouched on the floor beside her, gripped her shoulders.

“Mabel, listen to me!  That piece of shit sent me the same video.  I heard the whole thing.  Everything you said.”

She shook in his arms, curling up, shutting down.

“Listen!” he hissed.  He pulled her close, pressed his mouth to her ear.  “You were _amazing_ , Mabel.  You were so fucking amazing I can’t even stand it.  You practically hypnotized that asshole.  You … _fuck_ , Mabel, you conned him so good you’d put Grunkle Stan to shame.”

She dissolved into sobs, soft shaking howls.

“But I _said_ it.  I didn’t _mean_ it but I _said_ it, Dipper.  And it hurts!  It hurts so bad to say something so awful!”

He rubbed her back, kissed her temple.

“I know.  I know.  God, Mabel.  You were so brave.  I’m so sorry, I didn’t even know … nobody ever told me that the only reason I’m alive …”

He choked back a sob.

“The only reason I’m alive is because of _you_ , Mabel.”

“No,” she hissed.  “No no no that’s not true at all.  Dipper, I _made this happen_ !  I made him think you were in the way.  I put a target on your back and I didn’t take it off until someone actually _shot_ it!”

“Mabel, you can’t … there’s no possible way you could’ve predicted this.  I mean, yeah, if that dick sucker-punched me in the hall, then _maybe_ that’s on you.  But this … Jesus, Mabel, nobody right in the head would just _shoot_ someone.”

“I should’ve known,” she said.  “When I broke up with him, he started getting all weird, and scary, and we were alone in his car in a parking lot because I’m _so fucking stupid_ about breaking up with people … and I didn’t know what to do, so I … I thought it would be safer to blame you, just so I could get out of there.  I never thought he’d even consider … ah, god …”

“Mabel.  Jesus, Mabel, that little piece of shit …”

“I’m so sorry, Dipper.  I was just trying to save my own butt.  I’ll never ever do something like that again.”

“F-fuck that,” he said.  “Always, _always_ do something like that.  Jesus Christ, he had you all alone in a parking lot?  Mother of God, Mabel, you might’ve talked your way out of being buried in the desert by that murderous little prick.  You think that would make me happy?  Hell fucking no, Mabel.  If a guy ever scares you like that, I want you to send him after me, just like you did.  Don’t even hesitate.”

“God,” she said.  “I can’t believe … Dipper, please just find something … something wrong with me … something to blame me for.”

He brushed her face with the back of his hand.

“No can do, Mabes.  Sorry to tell you, but you’re my goddamn super-hero.”

She blushed.

“No I’m not…”

“You totally are.  Used your super-powers to make a killer spare my life.  Got me to a hospital.  Stickered that hospital all the hell up, so I’d know I was in good hands.  Took care of me for a full week, no matter how much I bitched and moaned about it.  

His face became warm, his eyes wet.

“And the fact you could do all that,” he said, “... that you could do all these amazing things - and still talk like there’s something you did wrong … something you should feel guilty for … it just … it makes me want to …”

His breath caught.

“Dipper?”

He brought his lips to hers, tasting the salt of her tears, the butter of her … all right, so she’d eaten some of the popcorn already, that was not the salt of bitter tears, that was plain old Orville Redenbacher.  He kissed her still, kissed her and wrapped his arms around her, kissed her and pulled her tight to his chest, kissed her as she scooted into his lap and hooked her legs around his waist.

The warmth of her, the closeness of her, lit a fuse in him, a bomb buried so deep he didn’t realize it existed until this moment, and it burst.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Dipper?”

He trembled, shook.  Mabel was sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around him.  Mabel was alive, she was a thing that existed.  Mabel was the most important thing in the entire world.  And she was alive, and it had nothing to do with him. Fate and chance had decided her life.  The weight of her body, the warmth of her touch, the sound of her voice, all mocked his failure.  Dipper had done nothing.  He had failed her completely.  

“I’m sorry,” he said again, the tears flowing freely now, the shuddering of his shoulders far beyond any capacity or interest in arresting.  He felt himself crumble.  It felt like dying, but worse.  He didn’t know what was going on before.  But he knew now, and every mistake he had made played out in his head, over and over.

He barely registered outward sensation, and did not realize that Mabel had pulled him toward her, making him lay atop her on the living room floor.

“I’m sorry, don’t hate me,” he gasped.

“I love you,” said Mabel.

“I’m sorry, I’m the worst, he cried.

“I love you,” said Mabel.

“S-stop,” he gasped.  “You-you don’t have to say that.”

“I love you,” said Mabel.

“M-mabel … h-hah..”

He trembled and shook, his arguments inarticulate, only blubbering protest.

“I love you,” said Mabel, no matter what he said to her.  “I love you.  I love you.”

And when he found himself spent, unable to scourge his soul any further, she touched his face, and brought him close.

“I love you,” she said.  “Forever and ever.  Try as hard as you want to make me stop. Because you can’t, Dipper.  You’ll never make me not love you.”

“M-mabel, come on…”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and her voice hardened.

“Stop,” she said.  “J-just stop.  Stop the bullshit.  Stop trying to protect me.  Stop thinking about the consequences.  Just be with me, just for a moment.  Just tell me, right now … if the world didn’t exist … if there was nothing out there but this moment … right now … just tell me.  Just tell me, Dipper, what would you do?  What would you want?”

She lay so beautifully on the carpet, the popcorn she spilled earlier glowed like stars in the sky under the light of the TV, her hair splayed out like spilled root beer, like a nebula come into existence.  

“Y-you,” he whispered, wiping his wet cheeks and runny nose with his sleeve.  “I want _you_. All of you.  All the time.”  

Mabel grinned, and reached out to him, gripping his hand in hers.

“Lucky you,” she said.  “You got me, ya dork.”

Scooting out from under him, she pulled him to his feet.

“C’mon, I have an idea.  Lots of ideas, actually.  But not here.  These aren’t living room ideas.”

Dipper somehow found himself dragged out of the living room, up the stairs, toward Mabel’s bedroom.  Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out whatever it was Mabel was saying.  The anticipation of something - he didn’t even know what - made his heart flip-flop in his chest.  And for a few moments his entire world was nothing more and nothing less than the grip of Mabel’s fingers on his own, the swish of her skirt as she walked, and the dimpled grin as she smiled warmly back at him, struggling to keep up.

 

 _Are there some aces up your sleeve?_  
_Have you no idea that you're in deep?_  
_I dreamt about you nearly every night this week._  
_How many secrets can you keep?_  
_\- Arctic Monkeys_


	7. Chapter 7

 

_So, have you got the guts?_  
_Been wonderin’ if your heart’s still open_  
_And if so_  
_I wanna know_  
_What time it shuts._  
_-Arctic Monkeys_

 

“Mabel, what are we … how should I - ?”

She closed her bedroom door, placed her hands on Dipper’s shoulders, and shoved him backward onto the bed, grinning wolfishly at his increasingly panicked expression as she straddled him.

He was so alive.  So very, very alive.  And this thing she’d been searching for her entire life, this thing she never knew she needed, was here, right here.  And it was Dipper, always Dipper.

The warm tongue in her mouth, the soft lips between her teeth.  Hot breath and urgent growls of pleasure and want.  She trills at the sensation of his hands upon her, up and down her sides, grasping at her hips, and she _needs_ this, needs this touch, but she needs to touch _him_ far more.

She grabs his shirt, pulls it off him, and throws it aside.  She slides down his body, just a bit, because the kisses and nibbles on his neck just aren’t enough anymore, and his bare chest was unspoiled territory, ready for her to claim.  The sight of his wounds no longer shocks her; she knows them too well now, the slight puckers of skin, the half-inch creases, the flesh pink and healing but still quite sore.  But she knows how to fix him, how to heal him, and she was _so gentle_ , featherlight kisses on each mark on his skin, from his right shoulder to the bottom left of his ribs.  His wounds are deep, she knows, and she thinks not only of the rends in his skin, but the injuries she cannot see, and she kisses those too, kisses them with all her heart, the sewn-together artery and the patched lung, the bits of bone and cartilage that even now knit themselves back together, day by day.  She kisses these places, because this is her brother, and it is only right for her to kiss him like this, to kiss his wounds and make them better, and she doesn’t care whether they’re seven or seventeen or seventy-seven, she’ll always want to do this, always need to do this.

But when she is done, when she lifts her head and looks into his eyes, she sees an expression that no doubt mirrors her own - a sort of shocked fascination, a realization that they were quite sincerely _doing this_ , that such a thing was so unimaginable even a few days ago, but now, in the moment, was impossibly thrilling.  The understanding that both of them were waiting for the other to say “stop,” and “this is weird,” and maybe something more colorful and forceful than that.  And without Dipper’s condemnation, nor even complaint, forthcoming, she brought her lips to his again.

She kept the kiss brief this time - his hands found their way to her back, threatening to hold her in place, which would be quite nice, but distracted her from more important tasks.  And so she detoured, laying wet, open-mouthed kisses on his cheek, along his jaw, down his neck.  She avoided his scars this time around - she’d already _kissed them better_ , so there was nothing wrong with continuing onward, her kisses decidedly _wetter_ now, punctuated by kittenish licks, breathing in his scent, tasting him.  His hands slipped upward, gripping her shoulders, and then her head, fingers weaving into her hair and massaging her scalp, and she moaned softly - _man, head massage skills must run in the family!_ \- and was rewarded by the feel of his chest fluttering beneath her lips.

She had no idea where all this was coming from - she’d never had a make-out session quite like this before.  With the few guys she’d allowed - if even briefly - sloppy-kiss-and-boob-grab status, she’d always just sort of gone with the flow.  And she was okay with letting the guy lead, heck, it was a lot simpler that way.  But Dipper was giving her free rein here.  And as much as she’d kind of like him to take charge, she enjoyed this far more, for the moment, particularly with Dipper’s increasingly verbal responses.  A delightful medley it was, soft gasps, murmured curses, whispers of her name, or at least a syllable of it.  There was something exciting about the space between the sound “May” and “Bel,” when it was Dipper saying it, and that space between was _doing things_ to her.  " May…”  “... bel…”  Speaking her name like it was something else, like a festival event, the May Bell. _A thing / you ring /  in the spring. /  Ding a ling!_  And she was indeed ringing; the noises Dipper made saw to that.   The high notes where she teased a Dipper-nipple ( _hehe dipple_ ) and got something between a squeal and a kitten-like “mew,” sending her into suppressed giggles.  The low notes where she adjusted her position, straddling his waist as she worked her way back up his chest, and the increasingly serious situation in his shorts rubbed against her inner thigh, making her breath catch.  The heat of him, so precariously close to her own.   _Oh gosh oh dang, if he keeps knockin’ on my door like that, I might just let him in ..._

This did nothing to help her sudden oral fixation on the region of Dipper between his shoulders and his waist.  Somehow Dipper just tasted _that_ good, and if he thought it was weird, ( _it was weird_ ) he wasn’t complaining.  

She rested for a moment, studying the heaving chest, the thin scraggly-oval-ish patch of brown hair at the lower juncture of his pecs, the rolling abdomen, and the trail of peach-fuzz that began below his bellybutton.

This last item was worth particular attention, as it led to the button of his jeans and then parts unknown, and at least one of those unknown parts was straining against his clothes, and becoming more and more of a distraction.  Clearly, he was enjoying this - that’s what that meant, right?  But she felt a bit bad as well - it really didn’t look comfortable, and still he was so patient while she indulged herself.  What to do, though?  In a situation like this, what would Dipper want from her?  

Absent any other idea of what to do with herself at the moment, she scooted up the bed, straddling his thighs, and brought her head to his, cocking her head just a bit to rub her nose against his.   _Eskimo kisses.  There’s no other guy in the world I could be with like this, and take a make-out break-out for Eskimo kisses._

Eskimo kisses led to more kisses - the French sort, now, and _gosh he has the nicest, softest lips_ .  More making out, her hands up and down his sides, occasionally getting a gasp of surprise out of him when she grabs his butt.   _Dipper-butt.  Hehe._  His hands also busy, touching her face, her arms, her sides.  She’s becoming increasingly aware of the pattern of his movements, the places his fingers are making contact, and the places they aren’t.  The way his hands move up her calves, linger at the bare skin below her knee, just above the hem of her rainbow-striped woollen socks, and then slide up her thighs and under her stretchy purple A-line skirt, but only a few inches, and only her outer thighs, before pulling back _all gentleman-like_ and continuing the journey to her waist over her skirt.  At her waist, the same sort of performance - warm palms and fingers massaging her sides, sliding up her white-cotton-and-applique _Duck-Tective Quacks the Case!_ t-shirt. But his hands move only so far, only over her trembling stomach and up a few ribs, before retreating and continuing the journey outside her shirt, from her hips to her shoulders, and then - with some variation - stroking her upper arms, or her back, or her hair, as they kissed.

And - let’s be fair here - this felt _good_ .  Like, super duper good.  Like, normal physical contact with Dipper was always warm and reassuring - the occasional hug, the firm shoulder to lean on when watching TV, the inviting lap to splay her body across when reading, or lay her head on when feeling ill.  This was that same feeling times a million.  But what really took it to the next level was the fact all the good feelings coursing through every inch of her body right now weren’t accompanied, to even a tiny extent, by bad ones.  There was no undercurrent of anxiety, no worry about getting carried away, no fear of being pressed beyond what she was ready for, no bracing for _that moment_ where the guy wants more and thinks his best move is a carefully-crafted-but-seemingly-casual comment, convincing her, for a little while at least, that she’s not as great of a girlfriend as she thinks she is.

It wasn’t like that _all the time_ , let’s be real, but still … she was feeling something with Dipper she never felt with anyone else.  More than the fireworks, more than his _ohmygosh amazing_ kisses, more than the fact his touch was just somehow _better_ than anyone else’s.  More important than _anything_ .  With Dipper, she felt _safe_ .  Like she could say anything, do anything, or nothing at all, and he’d accept it - accept _her_ \- with every fiber of his being.  And it would be okay.  Everything would be a hundred million percent okay.  For the first time ever, she was with a boy and could let down her guard down completely, and it felt _so incredible_ she could just explode.

Only then did she recognize the movement of her hips and _ohmygod I’m grinding on him I’m grinding on his thing how long have I been doing that_ .  She became suddenly, _acutely_ aware of the length of denim that ran along the fly of Dipper’s jeans.  That particular bit of clothing didn’t seem all that interesting a few minutes ago, but she knew better now - it was by far the most pleasurable thing she’d ever touched herself with, the ridge of fabric offering just the right stiffness and flexibility against the growing heat between her legs.  And also … _oh wow, that’s more than just warm.  That’s a wet spot.  There’s a wet spot in my underwear and I’m rubbing it all over the front of Dipper’s jeans right now.  He’d think that’s so gross if he knew.  I should really stop doing this.  Just another minute and I’m totally going to stop doing this._

She didn’t stop doing this.  She tried to recall a time where she’d ever been this keyed-up before, and drew a blank.  She realized, with some embarrassment, that she’d never, ever wanted anything quite as much as she wanted Dipper hard for her.

She gasped at the sudden sensation of hands on her breasts - for a moment, she’d forgotten entirely that Dipper was still touching her with his hands, or indeed, that any part of Dipper existed other than whatever was pressing the front of his jeans against her.  

“S-sorry!” he gasped.  “I - I didn’t mean to …”

She stifled a laugh - he _totally_ meant to; he couldn’t lie for beans when flustered.  But her amusement quickly dissolved as she saw the worry on his face.   _Geez.  All this time I’m mentally willing him to go for the goods, and as soon as he does, I act like Waddles just stuck a cold nose on my back._

“Dipper, don’t … don’t worry.  That’s my bad, you just surprised me.”

She slows her movement - much as at pains her to deny herself - and cups his face with her hands.

“Hey, it’s okay, seriously.”

“Mabel, I don’t … I don’t know what you want me to do.”

She could see an argument brewing, a back-and-forth where Dipper insists Mabel doesn’t want him to do the sort of stuff he really wants to do, and she insists otherwise, and he insists she’s _just saying that_ and so on and on.  Knowing Dipper, he was sure to have a natural talent in talking himself _out of_ a girl’s pants, and he’d surely find some way to un-seal this deal if only she let him talk for long enough.  Perhaps a little encouragement was in order.  After all, she’d given Dipper plenty of advice on dating, not that he ever seemed to _use_ any of it.  She had a strong feeling that he’d follow her instructions this time, though.

“Gimme your hands,” she says, and he does, and she takes just as much pleasure out of Dipper’s expression of shocked fascination as she does from the warmth of his palms as she presses them to her chest.  Actually, way more.  She’s well past the point where an over-the-shirt-boob-grope registers any sort of satisfaction.  She reaches behind her, under her shirt, and unfastens her bra.  She doesn’t know if this is too much for him, but she wants it.  She wants him to touch her.  And she is ecstatic when he follows her lead, pushes her shirt up her stomach, and her loosened bra moves with her shirt, up to her shoulders, and Dipper presses gentle hands to her breasts.

_Oh, wowie wow…_

“S-soft,” Dipper whispered.

“Dipper?”

“Y-you,” he said.  “Your … they’re so soft … and warm … I had no idea …”

She felt certain her face was turning shades of red not yet known to the Pantone Corporation, and she could only eep out a meaningless “yeppers” as Dipper began to delicately massage her breasts, fingers and thumb gently brushing her nipples, working them into stiff nubs.  Her shirt slid down again, obstructing his _very important work_ , and she helpfully pulled off her shirt and bra and chucked them at her dresser, resting her hands on her hips and grinning like a loon as Dipper meticulously fondled her boobs.

_Oh jeez oh heck oh wow this is really really really working for me_.

And she realized, with something between amusement and ecstasy, that Dipper was looking at her _that way_ .  Not just like, sexually, although it was clearly that too.  But the expression he wore when he first found the Journal, all those years ago … or when they discovered that map … or found that cave … the way Dipper looks at a new discovery, with unbridled fascination and fathomless desire to explore further … he was looking at _her_ that way, _right now_.  

_This is also working for me._

She did her best to touch him back, to brush her hands over his chest and back, to cup his face and stroke his hair, but she found herself melting under his gaze, his fingertips liquid on her flesh, and her arms slipped to her sides, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and regular as she floated on a sea of bliss.

He stroked her chest in long, spiraling patterns, circles and figure-eights, moving just fast enough to keep her on her toes, and wanting more.  And the only thought on her mind was one of self-congratulation, _this was such a great idea_ and _I’m really glad we’re doing this_.

She wasn’t even sure she could call this “making out” anymore.  Making out was what she did with Jake Karzysnik, or Steve Caravel, and it was fun and exciting but also kind of rushed and always a prelude to something else, whether or not that “something else” was actually going to happen.  When a guy gets to second base, he’s not just hanging out there for funsies, he’s got his eye on the pitcher and is ready to dash for home given the first opportunity, and he’s going to run for it or get tagged out but he’s definitely not going to just stay put.

_I mean, that’s as much as I understand about baseball … I’m in the room but normally not paying attention when Dad is watching the Giants … I guess I picked up more than I thought …_

The whole baseball analogy sort of fell apart with Dipper, because the way he touched her, the way he tested every square inch of her with his fingertips, the way his eyes swallowed her up … she somehow knew he’d stay like this forever, if she asked.  Like he wasn’t thinking about the next step, and he was fine with just being here, in the moment, with her.  There was none of the tug-of-war she was used to with her prior boyfriends, and in turn, none of the anxiety of trying to guess the guy’s next move and preparing some polite way to turn him down.  Because this wasn’t a competition for Dipper, it was a journey of exploration, and he’d just established base camp in the general vicinity of her boobs and seemed perfectly happy to stay there if that’s what Mabel wanted.

Mabel realized that this wasn’t _quite_ what she wanted.

“Dipper,” she whispered.

He glanced up.

“S-sorry … did I hurt you?”

“N-no, of course not,” she said.  “It feels nice … it feels really really nice, I just …”

“Mabel?”

“You can … more,” she said.

“Uh…”

“Stuff,” she said, waving her hands in a uselessly vague gesture.  “You … you can do more _stuff_.  If you want.”

“O-oh,” he said.

He leaned back a moment, her stomach fluttering has his hands slid down her ribs to rest at her waist.

She wasn’t exactly sure what she was saying, what she was offering.  She was already topless, unabashedly _boobing right at him_ , and that was generally the very edge of her comfort zone during Mabel Time With Boys.  She was pretty sure she’d _never_ told a guy he could “do more stuff” before today.  But she did say it.  And meant it.  And the realization of _just how much_ she meant it almost - _almost_ \- felt as good as all the other stuff he was doing to her.  Most notably, at this moment, letting her slowly grind against - and, she suspected, dampen - the front of his jeans.

Right, that business.  That was becoming _a problem_.  

“If … if you mean that, then … Mabel … is … is it all right if I … if you …”

Thumbs finding the bones of her hips, circling them.

“Dipper?”

“I mean … I figure you’re going to say ‘no,’ but I still … I still want to ask anyway…”

“What is it?”

“You … I mean … _you_ .  I want to _see you_.”

Her heart quickened in her chest.

“I want to see  … _all_ of you, Mabel.  Is that … is that okay?”

Heat swelled in her chest.   _He’s asking me … is he really asking me …_

Beneath Dipper’s gaze she suddenly realized she wasn’t ready for this.  I mean, she was _ready for this_ .  But _logistically_ … I mean.  Full-on naked?  With a boy?  Just like that?  She’d never _done that_ before, never even come up with a workable scenario where she’d go that far.  Well, that’s not true, she _had_ , but they involved bubble baths and scented candles and a Wolf Boy who was lost in the woods and she gave him a job working around her stately country manor and one day he’s chopping wood without a shirt on and …

_… yeah, unworkable._

But on the other hand … this was _Dipper_.  Dipper, who has made her laugh until she peed herself, and on multiple occasions, and more recently than she’d like to admit. Dipper who … that one time ...

Dipper, who was with her when she had her first full-blown _period_ , some four years ago, at the park a mile from their home.  

_Oh, come on, why am I thinking about that kind of junk now, that sucked so bad and has nothing to do with -_

Dipper, who thought his sister had hurt herself, very badly, when he saw the droplets of blood on her knees and ankle-socks (why did she have to wear white socks that day of all days?).  Dipper, who waited patiently outside the dark-and-dingy restroom as she sobbed and dialed Mom’s cellphone only to get voicemail over and over.  And as panic took over - her clothes ruined, the bathroom faucets offering barely a dribble of icewater.  No hot water, no soap, no toilet paper, no hope.  And it was Dipper who called to her through the bug-spattered window above her stall and told her to hold tight and he’d be back as soon as he could.  And it was Dipper - a wheezing, sweaty Dipper - who returned to her, ten minutes later, and shoved a shopping bag through the window, apologizing all the while for taking so long, for not knowing exactly what she needed, and for only having enough cash in his pocket for a few things.  She recalled that moment, years ago, the love and relief she felt, the moment she opened that bag and found sweatpants and granny-panties from the discount clothing store a few blocks away, and pads and wet-wipes from the convenience store that shared the same strip mall.  She could imagine it so vividly - Dipper, cheeks aflame, fists clenched, fixing his hat on his head, his courage in his heart, and pulling these things off the shelves, women’s underwear and feminine hygiene products, placing them at the checkout counter, and daring anyone to stop him.  Dipper, a scared, embarrassed, and _incredibly brave_ thirteen-year-old-boy doing his best impression of a man -  really, _becoming a man_ , in that moment, for _her_.

Dipper, who walked home with her, who insisted in carrying the tied-up shopping bag for her even though he knew it contained bloody shorts and underwear.  Dipper, who did all of this and _never_ said a word about it, _ever_.  Like the events of that afternoon never happened.  And as far as Mom knew, Mabel was at home when she “became a woman.”

That was four years ago, but she knew in her heart Dipper would do it again, right now, in an instant.  

And how many times since then has he been particularly sweet to her when she was having a bad month, accepting her claim of a stomach ache without suspicion?  Dipper was dense, but not _that_ dense.  He must’ve known that puberty was a heck of a bumpy ride for her, and on the worst days, he gave her exactly what she needed - a quadruple-chocolate ice cream sundae from Dairy Czar, a warm blanket, a couch with Waddles at one end and Dipper’s lap at the other, and a _Project Runway_ marathon that he somehow sat through without complaint.   _Well, he was usually playing on his phone and ignoring the show entirely, but it still counts._

He had to have known.  He must have known there were unimaginable horrors going on downstairs even as she lay on his lap, even as his fingers brushed her greasy hair and rubbed the ache from her shoulder.  He must have known it would have shattered her if Dipper had said aloud what was much better said in his actions.  And his actions said this: _I’m sorry this is happening to you.  Let me help you.  You’re not gross._

It made sense now.  It clicked.  She’d been holding back the _au naturale_ for someone special.  Someone who could accept her body so completely it was just beyond imagination.  And, oh my gosh, Dipper has paid his dues on that one.  Dipper was worth, like, at least _three_ Wolf Boys in a bubble bath.  ( _And would that even be worth it?  The bathtub drain would be so ridiculously clogged..._ )

“Mabel?  Are you okay?  God, I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry, I won’t…”

“Shush, you,” she said.  

She slipped off him, standing at the edge of the bed, smiling.

“Mabel?”

“I’ve never done this before.  I wanted you to know that,” she said.

“O-oh, okay, well … you … sorry, I shouldn’t have even asked, just forget I said anything…”

She peeled off her knee-socks - it was getting a bit warm in here anyway.  It took a second to unfasten the button and zipper at her back, but a moment later her skirt and underwear were on the floor.

“Whoo-pah!” she said, waving her hands in a _look at all this good stuff_ gesture.  She was beaming.  She was bare-ass-naked and she was beaming.  She was so sure she’d be embarrassed, the first time, every time, she did this.  But it was invigorating.  It was exciting. The look on Dipper’s face just filled her to the brim with confidence.  This was such a great idea.  Being naked around Dipper is a great idea.  They should go to a nude beach together.  Or a sauna.  Or just hang around the house like this.  

She twirled a bit, letting him have a good look, before the lack of physical contact became too much to bear, and she crawled atop him, pressing her forehead to his.

“Well?” she asked.

“You … god, Mabel.  You’re beautiful.  You’re so incredibly beautiful.”

“Pshaw,” she said.  “I bet you say that to all your sisters.”

Back to the kissing business, and oh gosh, it was like holding her breath to not kiss him for, like, a whole minute back there, but she’s better now.  And _hello there_ , Dipper’s _finally_ taking some initiative, hands moving up and down her body again, but now with additional detours at the curve of her hips, some pleasant squeezing of her butt, and then up her shoulders and some quality time with her boobs.  

God, though, he knew how to tease her.  Maybe too much.  The frustration mounted, to the point she realized she was going to actually say something about it.  She was going to ask him to _do the thing_.

“D-dipper … you … you can …”

She sucked in a breath as a thumb made contact with her inner thigh, sliding up just a few inches, before moving back outward.

“Mabel?”

“H-hah,” she said.

“I can what?” he asked.

Another movement of fingers up her inner thigh, just inches away now, and then receding.  Dipper’s lips tight, fighting a smirk, his eyes too clever.

_Are - are you freaking serious right now?  Was that_ game _?  Did my brother just develop_ game _?_

Maybe, maybe not.  Dipper was an amateur, at best, in the ancient and most noble art of I’m Not Touching You.  Mabel, of course, could waggle a finger in front of Dipper’s face - threatening to poke him but not actually poking him - and have him begging her to stop in like ten seconds flat.  Dipper, meanwhile, lacked the patience, the sense of timing, the raw talent, to get a reaction out of her on most attempts.  

On the other hand, this game of I’m Not Touching You was a different sort, one she’d never played before with Dipper.  With anyone, really.  In this version, Mabel _wanted_ to be poked.

Another movement of his hand - so close, so goddamn close - and by now there’s no way Dipper didn’t notice she was holding her breath every time he moved his hand up her leg and exhaling every time he moved back down.

He laughed softly, beneath her.

“Dipper?”  

“Sorry, I just … I can’t help thinking about it.  The stupid game we played on long car rides when we were kids.  You know.”

One more movement of his hand, just as an illustration, nowhere near as high up her leg as the last one.

“I’m not touching you,” he said, unable to suppress the smirk this time.

“W-why?”

His expression faltered, eyes avoiding her face.

“Yeah.  Yeah, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he said.  “I don’t know why I’d say something dumb like that.”

He turned back to her, and oh please oh please let him see how badly she needs this, he’s won this round of I’m Not Touching You, this is her forfeit, signed and dated and sealed, it’s official, so they don’t need to play any more.

She gripped his wrist, holding his palm against her thigh.

“Why,” she said, “aren’t you touching me?”

She kept her grip loose - he could pull away if he wanted  - and moved his hand upwards, to the place it very much needed to be.  She reveled in Dipper’s widening eyes, his mouth slack with shock.  And then.  Finally.  Contact.  Shudders rolled up and down her spine.  Dipper’s hand, warm and firm and perfect, cradling the heat between her legs.

“Ohhhhh god,” she groaned.

“M-mabel…”

She held him there for a moment, let him feel her warmth, her wetness ( _that’s not grossing him out, is it?  He doesn’t look grossed out_ ), letting his fingers explore a little.  Or a lot.  

The slightest pressure on that particular nub and suddenly all strength leaves her body, her arms too weak to hold her up, her face buried in Dipper’s shoulder.  She tries to fight it, to lift herself up and look into Dipper’s eyes as she shares herself with him, the part of herself that feels so good to share with him, but it is impossible, and she lays in a boneless heap atop him.  The flood of emotions is too much for her.  Tears start to prick her eyes.  This is Dipper.  This is really Dipper, doing this to her.  And it means everything.  Because Dipper is so amazing, so perfect, so much better than any guy she’d ever been with before, or any guy she could even imagine.  This was Dipper’s hips moving beneath her, his breath almost as haggard as her own, as if she was so incredibly sexy that the act of touching her brought him just as much pleasure as it brought her.  And he was so gosh-damn _good at this_ , and thank god for that, because she didn’t have the breath to tell him what to do.   Her face burns with unspoken dirty-talk, the words coming to mind only to die somewhere in her throat, the ghost of her confession passing her lips as a lengthy and inarticulate moan:   _I thought about this moment this exact moment I fantasized about it I touched myself and had the best orgasm ever and this is ten billion times better and I haven’t even cum yet and boy oh boy am I going to cum just you wait mister you are in for a show._

She loses track of his hands; she knows there is a reassuring hand moving from her shoulder to back to butt to breast, but whatever he is doing between her legs seems to defy physics, what with his fingers being everywhere at once.  Something slips inside her and she melts into Dipper, who takes the opportunity to shift position and bring her left nipple into his mouth, teasing the firm nub.  Tension builds in her thighs, and madness overtakes her.  She reaches downward, grips the waistband of Dipper’s jeans, pulls downward, feels scratchy pubic hair against her knuckles.  She is not on birth control, and she knows the next few moments could change their lives forever.  But in those moments, she is ready.  She is ready for Dipper to free up one of his hands and unbutton his jeans.  And if he did that, there would be no stopping her.  She lifts herself up with her free arm, muscles straining, bleary eyes burning with determination.  It would take nothing more than a word, a gesture.  In a single, fluid movement, she would pull down his jeans and underwear and take him inside her, _where he belongs_.  She would give herself to him, give him everything, if Dipper should even so much as whisper, “Please,” into her ear.

A second finger slips inside her, and she shakes and shudders.  It is too much.  Pads of his fingers curling inward, finding that special spot, all while his thumb rubs back and forth over her clit.  The mouth suckling her breast, teeth and tongue teasing the sensitive nipple.  A firm hand on her ass, holding her still as he fingers her.  Dipper putting her first, putting her pleasure above her own, and refusing to be lost in the moment.  But she could still imagine.  She could close her eyes and imagine, and she does, rolling her hips, and a coiled spring winds up to the breaking point as Dipper matches her pace, thrusting fingers in and out, and he releases her breast from his mouth as she bobs up and down, and if she keeps her gaze fixed on her face it is so very easy to imagine both of Dipper’s hands are gripping her hips, so easy to imagine Dipper thrusting into her, thick and hard and amazing, so easy to look at the ecstacy on Dipper’s face and imagine it was because _he_ was about to cum, because _he_ was the one losing control.

“D-dipper,” she moans, and she scoots down his body, cool air teasing saliva-wet nipples, because she needs to kiss him, needs to breathe him in, and he brings her to the edge, her entire body vibrating like a taut string.  She ought to be embarrassed - hair in disarray, face flushed, tears streaming down her cheeks, probably drooling a little, extraordinarily naked, the sound of Dipper’s fingers plunging in and out _impossibly_ obscene.  But Dipper is looking at her like he’s never ever looked at her before.  She thinks maybe Dipper has never looked at anyone or anything like he’s looking at her right now.  Like she’s the most beautiful, most perfect thing he’d ever seen.  And she realizes just how much he’s enjoying this, enjoying _her_ , and she realizes that this isn’t a thing he’s doing to her, it’s an experience they are sharing, and she aims to do her best, because she’s not merely going to cum, she’s going to cum _for him_ , and Mom and Dad aren’t home so it’s okay to be as loud as she wants, and she is so happy as she unravels before him, as she shamelessly moans into his mouth and grinds into his hand, and he says the words to her, the perfect words, hot breath in her ear, and she’s never needed to cum so bad in her entire life, and Dipper says, over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and the spring snaps and she is completely and perfectly undone.

The hot wave of pleasure envelops her, and Dipper lays his arm over her, holding her to his chest, keeping her from floating away, and he whispers again, “I love you,” as the spasms pass, and she murmurs apologies - he is so patient, so kind, so good to her, and she hasn’t done anything for him yet, hasn’t even touched the part of him that must be aching for release, and he shushes her, rubs her back, strokes her hair, tells her it’s all right, everything is all right, she’s perfect, she’s beautiful, she makes him so happy, so rest, stay like this and rest, as long as you want, as long as you need, because nothing else matters, only this matters.  

She is floating on a raft, the slow current of a wide river turning her slightly this way and that, the feeling of sun and shade on her face as the sun moves in and out of the clouds, and the current draws her toward and away from the shady river banks.  The water is perfectly warm, the air just a bit cool, and she realizes she is not actually moving, it is _everything else_ that is moving, the entire world turning, the Earth spinning around the Sun, the Sun spinning around the Galaxy, circles within circles, but she is still, perfectly still, and she knows this because the raft is perfectly still, because it supports her and holds her and keeps her safe, and nothing else matters but this raft, this soft and kinda bony raft, this raft that’s breathing slow and even beneath me, and stroking my hair, and the raft is actually Dipper and _oh shit did I actually fall asleep_?

She blinked, rubbed her bleary eyes, regarded Dipper’s bemused expression.  There was something on her back.  Dipper hadn’t moved beneath her, but somehow pulled her comforter over, cocooning them in the padded fabric.

“Oh god … oh, god, Dipper.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

“Mabel, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I can’t believe I … god, how long was I ...?”

“Not long.  Maybe five minutes?  It’s not a big deal, Mabel.  You looked pretty tired this morning.”

“I … I didn’t really get much sleep last night,” she said.  “God, I’m the worst.  Leaving you hanging so long …”

“Mabel, stop that, seriously.  You … you were amazing.  That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life, Mabel.”

“Pfft, come on, you don’t mean that.”

“Of course I do.”

She adjusted position, lying beside him on the bed.  

“More amazing than that lake monster?” she probed.

“Mabel, if I walked by the bathroom right now and saw Nessie scrubbing her back in the tub, it would be the _second_ most amazing thing I’ve seen today.”

She giggled, and suddenly found herself caught in yet another kiss.  Moaning softly, she pressed her body closer to his side, her thigh across his legs.  Her hands began to wander again.

“S-shit,” he said.

Mabel recognized the texture of fabric underneath her right hand, and realized she was quite unabashedly cupping the front of Dipper’s jeans.   _Whoah hey there Mabel looky what’s on your mind here ..._

“Mabel, you … you don’t have to …”

Yeah, big neg-a-rino there, she _absolutely has to_ , no way around it, no way in heck she’s gonna let this pants-having-on situation continue any longer.  She kinda jumped the gun on the whole cuddle-and-zonk-out thing; that was her bad, but totally fixable.  And, crap, Dipper was really serious about just letting this one go, wasn’t he?  Of course he was.  Probably spent the last few minutes with her snoring in his ear, resigning himself to the possibility she’d be too overwhelmed to follow up with anything except putting her dang clothes back on and cleaning up all the spilled popcorn downstairs.  Or maybe even having a sudden epiphany that _sex stuff with your brother is wrong, don’t do it, not even once_ and shutting things down right there.  And probably a dozen other things Mabel couldn’t even imagine.  Anyone who claimed that Mabel was the creative one of the two twins _clearly_ has never seen Dipper set sail in his doom-and-gloom balloon.  

Atop all that, she’s pretty sure now that the part of him she’s grabbing is a heck of a lot less firm than it was five minutes ago, which would put Dipper both mentally and physically on the same page.  A very, very incorrect page.  I mean, the book of _stuff Mabel’s thinking about doing to you right now_ is what might be referred to as a _lengthy tome_ , and if you look up “pack it up here and Dipper strategically rubs one out later” in the index it’s just gonna say “not a chance in heck.”

Yeah, she’s gonna have to set that score right.  Movie night was darn near cancelled, first off - it was now “get in front of the TV 30 minutes before Mom and Dad are supposed to come home” night.  Clothes were _not going to happen_ for at least another hour.  And there was no popcorn to pick up because Waddles had surely solved that little problem by now.

She kicks off the comforter and slides down his body, unbuttoning Dipper’s jeans faster than he can come up with arguments that Mabel only _thinks_ she wants to do this but doesn’t _really_ want to do this.  And, you know what?  Hands-in-pants stuff?  Hand-inside-underwear stuff?  That’s for _other guys_ , that’s for guys you’re kinda into but not super-duper sure.  Jamming her hand down there and blindly jerking until Dipper pops … well, Mabel wouldn’t call that _disappointing_ , per se, but it’d be in that same neighborhood.  She wants more than that.  She wants to see him.

On that note, she’s pretty sure whatever Dipper did to her earlier - a physical event of clearly supernatural origins, which henceforth is filed away as _The_ Orgasm, in a folder with post-it notes remarking “Wow!” and “I didn’t know they could be like that holy crap” and various other commentary - shook something loose, like her little cat-nap earlier ( _super sexy, Mabel, guys love it when you fall asleep mid-doing-it_ ) maybe coincided with a vision quest or something.  Because up to this point, even as she admitted she was head-over-heels schmoopy-doopy sexy-times _in lurve_ with Dipper, the _ew-gross-he’s-still-your-bro-check-yo-self_ alarm was ringing in the background, and Mabel’s method of dealing with that bothersome little fact has been rigorously downplaying or even outright ignoring the emergence of the situation.

Yeah, she’s done with that noise now.  She’s ready to own it.  She’s in love with her own brother, and it’s not some cosmic joke or frustrating inconvenience that they just _happen_ to be twins.  She loves him _because_ he’s her twin.  And even if nobody else could ever understand, she knew now that their entire lives have led up to this.  They’ve always shared an inseperable bond, always been best friends, teammates, partners-in-crime.  This whole rapidly-developing boyfriend-girlfriend thing wasn’t a wrong turn, or a decision to throw all of that away.  It was a reaffirming of that bond between them, an assertion that there was something special about them, and the normal rules don’t apply.  

And oh boy, was that an exciting feeling.  Because right now that little voice in the back of her head was _freaking out._ Pointing out how Dipper was _still_ looking at her and she was _still_ naked and she _just came for him_ .  Alerting her that if she didn’t put the brakes on this crazy train she was going to _see her brother’s penis_ and probably _touch it_ and _oh gosh oh crap_ .  And that little voice was doing a _very bad job_ at convincing her these were undesirable things to do.

Any lingering doubts were erased as she unzipped his fly and saw his stomach tremble, saw his eyes widen with incomprehensible anticipation.  Because, holy crapping heck, she was _digging_ this look on him, so much so that her attentions were evenly split between his facial expressions and her task of extricating Dipper from his pants and underwear.

Disentangling the last of Dipper’s clothes from his ankles, a wave of giddiness overtook her.  She bit her lips to keep from laughing, but her grin spread so wide on her face that her cheeks hurt, and a giggle slipped out before she could press a hand to her mouth.

She had to remind herself that she was not only the Alpha Twin, but also, more experienced at this than him, if the sort of sweaty fumblings with prior boyfriends counted for anything.  Dipper had gone on a few dates with girls, but nothing steady, and he never came home with the sort of grin she expected him to wear after a hot-and-heavy makeout session.  She knew what that grin looked like now - he’d been wearing it for much of their out-making.  And his apparent surprise at what breasts felt like would seem to confirm her suspicions.  Despite Dipper’s _innate talents_ , her bro showed up to this shindig with a freshly-minted, perfectly unmarked v-card, which she was quite furiously punching, item after item, row after row.  And what little uncertainty she had earlier - god, that was an eternity ago, when she actually had to think about whether or not this was a no-panties situation - well, she could only imagine Dipper’s rising panic ( _not the only thing rising amirite?_ ).  

“Mabel … I know it’s not … I mean it’s okay, you don’t have to …”

“Dipper?”

“… just please,” he whispered, his voice strained.  “Please don’t laugh.”

Son of a monkey, did Dipper really think - did he seriously think she was giggling for anything other than the fact she was insanely, deliriously happy?

His face burned red, the corner of his mouth twitching.

_Oh no.  Oh god no.  No no no no no.  God, Dipper, how could you ever think that badly of me?  Ah, geez, I shouldn’t have rushed this.  I’m the first girl to ever get this far with you, right?  And this is just as important for you as it was for me.  I’m sorry, I just got too excited.  I should’ve been more patient.  I should’ve let you argue.  Then I could have argued back.  Told you the things I think you’d never let yourself believe.  I want to see you.  Touch you.  I want to make you feel good, as good as you make me feel, and even better than that._

She opened her mouth, apologies on her tongue, ready to reassure Dipper that he was fine, he was perfect, and it was so amazing to see him like this.  She tried her best to come up with compliments, but couldn’t gather much more than the fact it was a perfectly normal, perfectly average penis, and while it was remarkable to her, and important to her, that was solely due to who it happened to be attached to.  For better or for worse, pin this tail on any other donkey and she wouldn't think to give it a second look.

Perhaps she’d tell him that later, but for right now, that sort of body-positive but ultimately neutral observation was unlikely to fit the bill.  Nor could she talk up his anatomy without sounding ridiculous - and, assuredly, making Dipper feel patronized.

Heat welled in her chest as a particularly inappropriate urge came to her.  She hadn’t meant to do this, not so soon anyway, but the thought made her tingle all over.  She felt Dipper tense beneath her as she bent over him, a soft gasp as she took his semi-erect member in her hand, and a long, heavy, category-five groan as she placed a soft, gentle, almost-chaste kiss on the underside of her brother’s penis.

“Hnngguah!” said Dipper, and that set her giggling all over again.

She managed two or three more kisses - each with an exaggerated “Muah!” sound, as is standard, but no tongue or anything, she _just met_ this new friend of hers - before Dipper’s brain finally dropped into gear and began to process recent developments.

“M-mabel!  G-god … oh my god, are you ... why are you …”

“Shush,” she said.  “I found it fair and square.  I’ll let you have it back when I’m done.”

Another kiss, this one with her lips slightly parted, the barest taste of him on her tongue.

“Ffaaaaaaugh,” said Dipper.

She could actually feel him swelling in her hand, her fist loosening to accommodate him, the flesh increasing in temperature, the pulsations she realized must be his heartbeat.  She stroked a few times, eliciting all sorts of lovely moans from him, and her stomach flipped and flopped.  And speaking of flopping - well, that’s something Dipper wasn’t doing anymore.  And boy oh boy was this fun to watch.  Like a superhero transformation.  Mild-mannered dangly noodle-bit by day.  Rigid thrusty-thing by night.  And all the better that this was because of her.  For her.  

“Mabel … you don’t … you don’t have to …”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.  “I like it.  I like doing this for you.”

“Even if I … ah …”

“Give me a warning first,” she said.  “But yeah, I want you to.”

A few more strokes and she felt quite sure she’d succeeded in her task of making Dipper as hard as he could possibly be.  She leaned back, enjoying her handiwork ( _haha handywork_ ) for just a moment before leaning over him, bracing herself with one arm, bringing her mouth to his, lips and tongue between her teeth, and continuing to kiss him as her free hand slipped down his body, fisted him firmly, and proceeded to stroke up and down his length, seeking to match the pace of the twitching in his hips.

She could barely comprehend it.  The part of him that was hard as steel and smooth as satin, the ridge near the tip that made him whimper each time she brushed it with her finger, the droplet or two of clear fluid that dribbled from the tip and made the head slick and glistening in her hand.  The heady moans, the tears in his eyes, the surrender to her, the wordless plea that she grant him his release.  The part of him that weakly thrust against her fist, the fingers that dug into the sheets beneath them, the part of him that (she felt certain) wanted to bury himself inside her.  

God, if only.  If only she were ready for that.  Dipper.  Inside her.  How amazing that would feel?  Dipper’s warmth, firm and thick, sliding in and out, hitting every spot.  

“Mabel,” he gasps.  “I’m getting close…”

“How - how close?”

“Ah … maybe a minute or two.”

Risky.  But she moves quickly, taking him into her mouth, not all of him, just an inch or two, just for a moment.  He is warm and salty and strange but she circles the tip with her tongue and sucks gently, and pulls back.  There’s a weirdly arousing popping sound as Dipper’s cock slips from her pursed lips.

Dipper groans, his eyes roll up so much she can only see white, and incomprehensible gibberish spills from his lips.

“Nggkkkhacoming,” he chokes out.

It’s a near thing, but she cups her left palm over the head of his cock, fingers teasing the sensitive ridge, slippery with saliva, and pumps him with her other hand.

“I love you,” she says.

Dipper melts in her hands.  The wave of relief, the groan of satisfaction, wet gasps against her neck, the pulsing flesh in her hand.   _She’s_ doing this.  To _him_.  She’s the one making him feel this good.  She’s the one making him unravel before her.  It is a pleasure and a triumph to feel him erupt, wet and warm and sticky on her palm.

“M-mabel, I … s-sorry … I can’t … gah...”

_Sorry for what?  For showing me one of the coolest things ever?  Can’t what?  Can’t believe this?  Well, me neither, but it’s totally happening.  Can’t control yourself?  Darn straight, Mister.  Mabel’s running this ride; nothing you can do until we pull back into the station, ya dig?_

Also, she’s beginning to think Dipper’s self-love session that morning turned out to be a dud - maybe he heard her walking by the bathroom, or maybe he just couldn’t go through the whole masturbate-to-your-sibling-then-sit-next-to-them-all-day process.  Maybe he hasn’t even done it since the hospital.  Dude was _clearly_ not shooting blanks here.  And she’s just so _relieved_ .  I mean, none of his injuries should’ve affected that … not physically anyway … but trauma shows up in weird ways.  And that’s something she might never, ever know about, if they hadn’t come this far, and decided to be intimate like this.  But they’re at that level now - she was in a full-blown _sexual relationship_ with Dipper, so health issues like this were officially Twin Business.

And if Dipper was (still?) worried that she was comparing him to prior boyfriends, prior sexual experiences - well, _yeah_ , she _was_ .  She had just _assumed_ those prior experiences were satisfactory, that the mix of curiosity and boredom and mild discomfort was just the normal emotional state for a handjob.  Because it was ultimately a means to an end.  Something to get over with.

But with Dipper, _oh my golly gee_ , this was a gosh-darn banquet of sights and sounds and sensations, and she is glad beyond measure that their parents are not home, and Dipper is not muffling his moans.  She drinks him up - the arched back, tense arms, fingers fisting the bedsheets, tears on his cheeks, eyes fixed to her bedroom ceiling, mouth wide and spewing unintelligible obscenities.  The sheer _joyful incredulity_ of his expression set her afire.  And that’s not even taking into account the - ah - _purely mechanical_ aspects of the oh-so-recently-fascinating male orgasm.  That part of Dipper seemed to have taken on a life of its own; hips twitching, thrusting into her hands, wild and unruly and perfectly amazing.  She keeps her left palm cupped over the head of his cock - she has no idea how far that stuff might go otherwise - and continues to pump his length with her right hand until he stops moving, and it appears he’s quite thoroughly done with the ol’ squirty-business.

The tension finally leaves Dipper’s body, arms and legs and chest and stomach relaxing beneath her, the cords of his neck no longer visible.  And she breathes out too, somehow feeling the same relief, and a soft moan escapes her lips because _holy shit that was hot_ , and _holy shit this is still hot_ , because the air was heavy with the scent of sex, and though finally still, Dipper’s cock remained rock-hard in her hands.  Thick white fluid spilled between her fingers, forming warm, sticky zig-zags along the back of her hands; additional globs of the stuff decorated the tuft of pubic hair above his penis, and more still ran along the underside of his slowly softening cock, coming to rest on the delicate hair of his scrotum.

“Oh, wow,” she whispers, and she is again glad their parents aren’t home, because this is a serious situation here, probably requiring a shower or two, followed by copious amounts of Febreeze and a few aromatic candles.  

His eyes are bleary and unfocused, his noodle-arms weakly pawing for the tissue box on her nightstand, and there is a brief but sharp ache in her heart.   _What the heck, Dipper?  You just finished like a second ago.  Geez, it’s not like it’s poison or anything.  I mean, yeah, Cleanup On Aisle Six and all, but you can enjoy yourself a little bit before we bust out the mops here._

“Hey, relax already,” she says.

“Mabel?”

She leans forward, soft kisses on his lips. Reveling in his afterglow.  Every few seconds, his breath catches, his thighs and stomach tense for a fraction of a second, and he twitches in her hand.  

“It’s all right, Dipper.  You can give yourself a few minutes.  I won’t let go, I promise.”

“Mabel you don’t … ah, god, I got it all over your …”

“It’s not gross,” she says.  “You’re not gross.”

He drew in a breath, and finally let his eyes meet hers.

“M-mabel…”

He reached for her, his arms hesitating in midair for a moment, and then pulled her close, his hands warm and firm on her back, her head on his shoulder.  It wasn’t long; barely a dozen breaths, although if you asked how many seconds or minutes that amounted to, she couldn’t possibly say.  

“I … okay,” he said to her.

“Hmm?”

“T-thanks.  I’m okay.  I mean … way better than okay.  But I  … I can’t imagine anyone else … God, Mabel, that felt so good, I can’t even … and ... seriously, you’re okay with … that stuff?”

She chuckled softly.

“No big.  I mean, yeah, it is _so freaking weird_ . But like, miracle of life and stuff, right?  Ah, gosh, you really … seriously, what the heck do you _do_ with this stuff when you’re done?”

“Ah…”

“You know what, forget I asked.  Don’t wanna know.  You’re good now, right?”

“Y-yeah…”

“All righty, lemme wash my hands.  Be right back, okay?”

Somehow, she manages to get to the bathroom without spilling anything from her cupped hands, and with Dipper still in her bed, dabbing at himself with tissues, she’s finally free to wrinkle her nose at the unpleasant texture.

And yet, as she elbows the sink faucet to full blast, and cold water circles around the basin, she can’t help but remember standing before the sink in a hospital bathroom a few weeks ago, scrubbing her hands in scalding water while Dipper was in surgery.  The way his blood stained her palm pink, cracked and fell away at the joints of her fingers in maroon flecks, and buried itself under her fingernails in black clumps.  And she thought of those endless minutes between the call to 911 and the arrival of the paramedics, her hands pressed to his wounds, each heartbeat sending hot red liquid oozing between her fingers, the smell so strong she could taste it, salty and metallic at the back of her tongue.   She rubs her thumb over her fingertips, thinking how very un-blood-like all this stuff was, and how glad she was for that, before rinsing and soaping her hands a few times, until her fingers are no longer tacky.

She returns to her bedroom with a wet washcloth and some air freshener.  As Dipper cleans himself up, she spritzes around the room and then lights an assortment of her stronger-smelling candles.  

She grabs her phone, making sure there aren’t any text messages from Mom and Dad to indicate they were coming home early, and sets a timer for 30 minutes, just in case they fall asleep.

“How’d the sheets fare?” she asked, hopping into bed beside him.

“Uh, fine, I think.  Maybe a little sweaty but no … uh … _stuff_ ...”

“Awesomesauce.  Scoot over, Mabel needs her cuddles.  And do not even _think_ about putting them underoos back on.”

“Ahem,” he said.  “Those are boxers.  Mens’ boxers.  For men.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said.  “Scootch, manly man.”

He chuckled, and moved over, letting her pull the sheets over them.

He jerked at her touch, but settled quickly, letting her lay her cheek on his chest, her thigh over his waist, her arm over his stomach.  God, he was warm.  God, he felt good.  Smelled good.  She kissed his cheek.

“H-hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she says back.

“This … this is cool? We’re cool?” he probed.

“Super cool.  Ice cold.  We are like a gosh darn paleon-toe-logical _glacier_ here, that’s how historically cool we are.”

“Ah…”

“You don’t get to do this thing you’re trying to do, by the way.”

“This… huh?”

“You don’t get to swing your dick around - a dick I am very very familiar with now, don’t you forget - and act like you’re the big bro who protects me from creepy dudes - including and especially yourself.  We’re a team here.”

“O-oh.”

“So your whole spiel about how you’re sorry, and you’re never gonna do this again? You can go ahead and pack that up, because that show doesn’t get to perform here.   _Capiche_?”

“Ah … oh … okay.  I … I didn’t mean to …”

“Heck with that.  Do you get me?”

“Mabel?”

“Like, well and truly get me?  Are we on the same page here?  Are you comprehending the fact this is literally the best night of my entire freaking life right now?  That I am redefining my very concept of _satisfaction_ thanks to you?”

“Mabel…”

He turned to her, and she pulled him close, reveling in his warmth, his body, his total-bro-ness.

“World,” she said.  “Rocked.”

“R-right. Well.  Um.  You … ah, god.”  

“Hmm,” she said, burying her face in the warmth of his chest.

Dipper’s hands moved up and down her back, slow patterns, soft, reassuring touch.

“So … Mabel.  What are we … Is this something we’re doing now?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said.  “Well … not _just_ this. Other things too.  Stuff we’ll need to work up to.”

“O-oh…”

 

* * *

 

_She’s so beautiful._

He’s staring at her, this girl with the long hair, silky smooth and brown with reddish tones.  He’s studying her face, only inches away from his own, the full cheeks, pouty lips, dark eyelashes, button nose.  He’s staring at this girl sleeping in her bed, and it’s okay for him to stare at her because he’s in her bed too, by her own invitation, except that she’s also his sister, so that swings things right back around to “not okay.”

He’s been doing this for a while now, letting the anxiety swell up, and dodging the crashing wave of panic with the distracting thought of how Mabel is disarmingly attractive.  For all the years they’ve known each other, all their adventures together, he’s never really looked at her like this before.  Weeks earlier he might have described Mabel as “goofy” and, grudgingly, “cute,” in an abstract way, in the sense that _someone else_ might look at her features and consider her a cute girl.  And on very special occasions where she was dressed to the nines - Junior Prom, for example - Dipper might go so far as to tell Mabel she was pretty, which Mabel helpfully deflected as a meaningless compliment.  And she’d be right, of course - describing his sister as “pretty” would be like describing the number five as “purple” - which is not to say that the number five was _not_ purple, just that color wasn’t a property of numbers, and in that same sense, prettiness was not a property of sisters.  And he was still getting used to the idea that Mabel was beautiful, that her appearance, her personality, her entire being, made up a person that he could love, that he _did_ love, very much, romantically, physically.  

Still … to what end?  They were siblings.  And, as the only twins in their class, they were easily recognizable siblings.  Add in recent events, and the concurrent news coverage, and they were _very recognizable_ siblings.  They can’t possibly go on dates.  Can’t brag to their friends about the catch they hooked.  Can’t even let on they weren’t single.  How was he supposed to sit beside Mabel on the bus, in homeroom, in the cafeteria, and at the dinner table, and never slip up and kiss her?  And even if he managed that, it would take nothing at all - a glance that goes on a little too long, a sudden blush on each other’s cheeks - and their lives would be over.  What hope did they have but to stop this, right now?  

Dipper didn’t care one way or the other, but Mabel … she deserved better.  She deserved the well-dressed, confident guy on the doorstep, the guy who brought flowers on every date, who cased out restaurants and made reservations for specific tables, who would make Mabel deliriously happy, who would propose marriage on a sandy beach, who would stand at the church altar for her and let their friends and family all know of their love.  Mabel deserved romance, and spectacle, and grand gestures.  Things Dipper could never give her.  Not so long as they lived among family and friends.  They’d have to go somewhere far, far away, to have any hope of behaving like a couple, and even then, the risk of running into someone that knew them as twins would be ever-present.

It was just a matter of time before Mabel realized this.  Like, fully and completely realized how completely impossible all this was.  I mean, she wasn’t stupid; she knew the risks, and he could trust her to keep things close to the chest.  She could look into the future just as well as him, and convince herself he was worth it.  But he wasn’t.  He knew he wasn’t.

And you know what?  That was okay.  College loomed; Mabel would see plenty of guys and realize how absolutely screwed-up this whole situation was, and they’d quit … whatever this was.  And it would be absolutely devastating to him, he knew, but he’d survive, and be happy for her.  And hell, who knows, _he_ might even come across some girl who he might love just as much as he loved Mabel right now, and who had the additional benefit of not being a blood relative.

_God, I’m so fucked up._

But it was okay.  This wasn’t going to last.  It couldn’t possibly last.  And soon enough Mabel will see that too.  But until then … until then, they could be together.  Whether for weeks or months or years, they’ll be together.  And the realization they would some day break up was a tremendous relief to him.  Because if the days were already numbered - if there were only so many left before he could no longer love Mabel this way - then each day was so much more precious.  

He leaned toward her, kissed his sister’s forehead, blushed at the soft moan that slipped from her lips.  Unable to help himself, he pulled her close, her naked body immediately conforming to his own, the two of them fitting together like puzzle pieces beneath the sheets.  It was almost impossible to deny that she was perfect for him, that they were made for each other, but he denied it nonetheless.  The most he’d allow himself to believe was that today was perfect, that today he was hers and she was his, that today each of them would sleep with thoughts of the other.  Tomorrow was another country, another world, and he’d worry about that when they got there.  Tonight was the only thing that was real.  

 

_I don't know if you_  
_Feel the same as I do._  
_But we could be together_  
_If you wanted to._  
_\- Arctic Monkeys_

 

~END~

 

 


End file.
